A Mission of Hope
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: The nuns. nurses and medics answer a distress call from a hospital mission in South Africa. Inspired by the press release for the 2016 Christmas special, this fic is completely AU guesswork. I'm just here for the ride. Also published on my " blog and on Tumblr. We've got a tenacious fandom over there, come join us!
1. Chapter 1

In the weeks since the thalidomide scandal broke out, a strange melancholy had come over the Kenilworth Row Maternity Home and its staff. While no new babies had been born afflicted by the ravages of the cruel drug, every day brought with it the worry that today, another would appear. Even the start of the holiday season did little to dissipate the grim mood.

The drug had been officially banned in the United Kingdom, and calls came up through the medical profession demanding new standards in pharmaceutical testing. If there was any good that could come from this terrible chapter, it would be stronger regulations to prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. But that was little comfort to mothers like Rhoda Mullocks.

Patrick Turner stepped from his car, turning the key to lock the door and headed up the stone steps from street level to the flat's entrance. To keep the spirit of Christmas up for the children, Shelagh had insisted they decorate for the holiday. Today, she had hung a wreath on the door. He did appreciate all Shelagh was doing to maintain some sense of normal, even if he found it hard to assist. He would have to make a greater effort. He swallowed heavily and entered the flat.

The sounds of carols on the radio greeted him as he hung his coat in the hall, the scent of mince pies filling the air. He suspected the early baking was more to keep his wife's mind occupied that a desire to stock up on holiday pastry. More than anyone else, Shelagh understood his sense of guilt and even felt a sense of her own culpability. Both knew they had acted in the best interests of their patients, that there had been no malpractice, but the knowledge that is was their misplaced trust in modern medicine made it all the harder to continue caring for the poor of Poplar. He pushed forward and went to meet his family.

Timothy sat in an armchair, his Biology text balanced on his knees as he copied a diagram. He didn't look completely happy about his position, having been ejected from his preferred spot at the table. The boy had a desk in his room but preferred to sit with his mother and sister as he worked on his studies. Patrick wondered how the boy could get anything done now that Angela refused to stay within the confines of her play yard. She seemed to take great delight from piling her toys on her brother as he worked.

Shelagh looked up from the washing she was folding. "Hello, dear," she greeted him, raising her cheek for his light kiss.

"Dad, there's a letter for you postmarked from South Africa!" Tim announced.

"South Africa?" he wondered, his brow furrowing.

Before he could give the letter any more attention, he felt a tug on his trouser leg and looked down to see two-year-old Angela's bright eyes and saucy smile. Pushing aside the sting of guilt he felt each time he pushed away his burdens, he crouched down to her level. "Hello, Miss Angela. It's a pleasure to see you." He picked up her soft hand, lifted it to his lips and was rewarded with the same shy smile of delight he so often saw play across his wife's face.

Wrapping his daughter in his arms, he stood. "What's that about a letter, Tim?' he asked. His eyes squinted as Angela patted his cheeks.

"It's got a stamp from South Africa. Who do you know from there?" Tim asked. He handed the letter up, avoiding his sister's inquisitive fingers.

Patrick turned the letter over in his hands. "Hope Mission," he read aloud. "M. Fitzsimmons." He thought for a moment, remembering. "We went to medical school together. She went down there sometime after the war, I think. I wonder what she has to say to me?"

"There was a woman in your medical school class, Dad?" Tim was amazed.

"Women _can_ become doctors, Timothy," Shelagh admonished from beyond the kitchen hatch.

"They can _now_ , Mum. But Dad went to school so long ago, I didn't think it was possible."

"Mind your cheek, Tim, " Patrick warned, his grin hidden by Angela's hands. "There were three in my class when we started, I'll have you know." He caught his son's eyes, halting any further response. "And no, it wasn't so long ago that one of them was named 'Eve.'"

"Can the letter wait a bit longer, dearest? Dinner's just ready." Shelagh carried in a bowl of roasted sprouts.

Patrick placed the letter on the mantle. "I suppose it won't hurt to wait until later. I'm famished."

Evenings were the easiest time to forget about the troubles within the practice, when self-reproach gave way to love. There was a tacit agreement to put the focus on family for the few hours they had before the children went to bed. The lively chatter of a bright young man and the happy little girl kept the mood light and made preparations for the holiday possible.

Patrick stood in doorway of the bath and watched as Shelagh gave Angela's hair a final rinse. The little girl sputtered and squealed with laughter.

"She'll turn into a mermaid one day," he laughed. He opened the towel and put out his arms, scooping up the slippery child. "I'll dress her tonight."

He passed by Tim's room on the way to the nursery. "Ready for the Biology exam tomorrow, Tim?"

"I think so. I'm fairly certain I know my all the enzymes."

Patrick shifted the wiggly girl on his hip. "Enzymes aren't all that hard, Tim. Just remember to break it down."

Timothy rolled his eyes at the terrible pun. "Can I have the stamp when you've finished your letter?"

"Right. I nearly forgot."

Shelagh joined them in the hallway. "You go read your letter, Patrick. I'll get Angela to sleep tonight," she suggested.

With a kiss on Angela's little nose and a quick one on his wife's cheek, Patrick left his family to settle in for the night.

He sat staring into space, absently tapping the letter against his chin when Shelagh returned.

"Good news, I hope," she said as she settled on the couch next to him. Her hand slid around his arm, finding his hand. They'd have one last cup of tea and set to wrapping gifts.

He sat up a bit and put the letter on her lap. "Interesting news, anyway. Myra Fitzsimmons was always...she's an unusual person. She wasn't the only woman in our class, but she was the most ambitious, maybe more ambitious than any of us. She was older and had years of medical training before she came to school-she lied about her age to be accepted as a nurse in the First World War, then went on to serve in Liverpool Hospital for another ten years or so." He laughed softly. "I don't suppose she relished the idea of listening to anyone, much less a man, so she left nursing and joined our class. Some of the old instructors were pretty rough on her, but she held firm. I think she was the only one to never faint in anatomy class!"

Shelagh lifted the letter to exaine it more closely. "It must have been difficult for her. In my experience, most doctors can be ...condescending... when treating women as patients. In the classroom, they must've been insufferable!"

Patrick turned to her in mock outrage.

"Present company excepted, dearest." She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "Were you friends?"

"Not friends, exactly. Myra Fitzsimmons didn't make friends easily, but she was an excellent lab partner. No nonsense, and the quickest diagnostician I ever knew. She signed up with the RAMC during the World War II and got stationed in Cape Town, and decided to stay."

"So why did she write you? Is she coming back to England? We could use someone like her here in Poplar." Shelagh stifled a yawn.

"Actually, no. She runs a mission on the East Cape, and it looks like they're in trouble." He turned to face Shelagh. "She wants us to go down there."


	2. Chapter 2

The high street teemed with shoppers, mostly women trying to get Christmas shopping done in the few hours left before school let out that day. They moved with the efficiency of a person with too much to do and too little time to do it. Shelagh nodded her head in greeting as she passed friendly faces, grateful no one seemed set on little visits. She had two hours to complete her task and get Angela back to Mrs. Penney before clinic began.

They crossed the street when the scent of baked goods made Shelagh stop. "Oh, Angela!" she cried, "I've forgotten the biscuits I meant to bring today." It was no wonder. Things were already busy at it was. She was mad to even try this.

Angela's ears perked up at her favorite word. "Bizkit!" She cheered. Shelagh's brow wrinkled in frustration and she scanned the area. "Oh, alright, we'll stop and bring some apple fritters with us to Freddy's house, shall we?" Angela clapped her hands in excitement.

"Got some luvley fritters here, Missus, fresh from me oven," a voice called. Shelagh turned to see an apron-clad man beside a heavy cart laden with baked goods. He snapped a brown paper bag open. From the look of him, he clearly appreciated the quality of his baked goods. "How many'll do ya?"

"Half a dozen, please." Peter Noakes might like one or two as well.

"How 'bout one fer the li'l princess? This itty bitty one's not so hot." The vendor took one from the tray and handed it to Angela. "Sweet fer the sweet, I always say." He grinned at Shelagh, an appreciative glint in his eye. "One fer her mother, too, eh?"

Shelagh shot a look at the hefty man. "Cheek!" She paid for the pastries and turned the push chair in the direction of the Noakes family's home.

"Yer husband's a lucky man, Missus!"

Ordinarily, the baker's innocent flirting would have cheered her, but for days the letter from South Africa weighed on her mind. Patrick was oddly disinterested, and their discussion that night left Shelagh feeling that there was a larger problem at hand.

"I haven't heard from Myra in years," he had said after she finished reading the long letter. "I wonder why she thought to reach out to me? It's not as if I have the power or connections she needs-or even the skills, for that matter! She'd be better off contacting Jim Pearson, he's chief of staff at the Liverpool now, or Herbert Crenshaw even. He's still teaching at St. Thomas's." He got up from the sofa and paced the room, his hands threading through his hair. "They're more likely to be able to send aid."

Shelagh watched as he opened the case of files he had taken to bringing home each evening. He was nearly finished with a second review, each night searching for connections between patients that had been prescribed Distaval. The late nights were beginning to show on his face.

"Perhaps she thought a general practitioner in the poorest district in London might have some understanding of how to manage in less than ideal surroundings." Shelagh tried to keep the worry from her voice. While Patrick's self-confidence had suffered, she was most concerned that he found less fulfillment in his work of late, and less a sense of his own worth. "Really, Patrick, I should think you're much more qualified than most. Your ambitions run to helping those most in need of help, not your own advancement."

He hadn't turned back to her then, as she had expected. They had a way of accepting compliments from each other, usually with a smile and a wink, but Patrick had ignored her. "I'll have to answer her of course," he said, "but I can't see how we can help. We've got enough on our plate here as it is."

The conversation ended with that, but for the last two days, Shelagh had not been able to forget it. Patrick was right. Things here in Poplar were busy enough as it is, they couldn't possibly find a way to help, and the thought of Patrick going away for a so long was too much to bear.

Yet the idea kept niggling at the back of her mind. What if, by some miracle, they could do something? What if all the bureaucratic potholes and ordinary realities were all taken care of? There was something in his eyes when he read the letter to her, a gleam of hope she hadn't seen for weeks.

The effects of the thalidomide scandal weighed heavily upon Patrick's shoulders, she knew, and he felt the blame sorely. Patrick was more than a doctor. He was a healer and felt a deep connection and responsibility for his patients. It was one of the things she loved the most about him.

It was also the thing that worried her most. Baby Susan Mullucks was always there in his mind, a permanent reminder of his unintentional mistake. While he was able to push through the anguish that caused and continue with his practice, Patrick's conviction was shaken. Perhaps a trip to Dr. Fitzsimmons' mission what just what he needed to get it back.

They stopped at the Noakes' door and Shelagh took a deep breath. "Well, Angela, nothing ever started by staying." She knocked on the door.

The reception room of the Christian Missionary Society was as dark and imposing as any building Shelagh had ever been in. Walnut paneling covered the walls, rich with the patina of years, it had the imposing effect of making her feel quite insignificant. If it weren't for the tall woman beside her, she wasn't completely certain she wouldn't turn tail and head back to Poplar.

"No need to be nervous, Shelagh. Johnny's quite a grand chap, really." Chummy assured her.

"Yes, but Chummy, when you said you had a friend here at the Society that could help, I had no idea you meant the Africa Secretary! He must be dreadfully busy. I hate to waste his time." Shelagh fretted with the handle of her handbag.

"Oh, Johnny's never too busy, you'll see. My brother used to say he's never known a fellow to be more energetic about more things!"

The large door opened, and a tall, thin man came out. His eyes immediately fell on the two women.

"Chummy! It's been too long! You told me you'd bring that boy of yours by again. It's been so long since I've seen him he must be ready for Trinity by now!" The stern words were countered by a twinkle in his eye.

"Not quite, though I will say for a three-year-old boy, he's quite advanced. We have hopes he'll be Prime Minister one day!"

Mr. Taylor leaned in conspiratorially. "As long as he sends funds to the Mission Society, he'll get my vote. Least I could do for the nephew of the man that dived into a rugger scrum to save me from the Oxford Huns."

Shelagh watched the two with guarded eyes. The two obviously had a long history together and spoke a sort of upper-class parlance that set them apart. This man, as much of the ruling class as Lady Browne, seemed to be more comfortable in it, and less concerned with the dignity of station. Perhaps Chummy was right to bring her here.

"Oh," Chummy cried. "Where on earth are my manners? Mr. John Taylor, may I present Mrs. Patrick Turner."

With two sets of eyes turned on her, Shelagh felt her confidence falter. What had started out as a simple inquiry was quickly getting out of hand. She reached deep and put on her best Sister Bernadette face.

"How do you do, Mr. Taylor. I'm very grateful you've agreed to meet with us. I hope we're not interrupting your busy schedule."

"No, no. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Turner. Indeed, I am _thrilled_! Chummy's told me about your request, and I must say, it's gotten my mind in a whirl!"He gestured towards his office. "Come, let's sit and have a bit of a chat, shall we? Mrs. Mugworth, if you could call down for a tea tray, please?"

Seeing them settled on the leather sofa, he took a seat in a wing chair.

"Your request couldn't come at a better time, Mrs. Turner. Things have changed a great deal in South Africa in the last year, and the Christian Mission Society no longer has a presence in the area. This could be precisely the opportunity we've been looking for."

He leaned forward. "I've taken the opportunity to look into this Hope Mission, and it does seem to be on the brink of closure. Independent missions are shutting down all over Africa, I'm afraid, and without any assistance from the South African government, I'm afraid your friend's hospital won't 'til summer.

"Here's where we can come in. Thanks to a rather large donation year, we have the funds to keep Hope Mission running. The trouble is, we're strapped for manpower. There's no way we can get our people out there in time to make a difference. What we need is an advance team that can go out there and do the dirty work, as it were. A group of about a dozen or so people that can bring in supplies, start an education program, perhaps even do something about the water problem. You have no idea how difficult the water problem can be in these places."

"I can assure you, Johnny, we're quite aware of the dilemma caused by poor water and sewage in Poplar," Chummy interrupted. "Even with the new council flats, we still have people living without running water in some quarters!"

The excitement dimmed from his eyes for a moment. "Yes, you're quite right, Chummy. Our own government has been moving a bit too slowly to care for British poor. There are problems enough no matter where you go, I suppose."

"Mr. Taylor, might I ask how likely any of this is to happen?" Shelagh could feel a spark of an idea start to form in her mind.

"Oh, I'd say if we could get a team formed quickly, we could have the team out there before February."

"February!"

He nodded. "Yes, if this is to work, it needs to happen immediately. Hope Mission is barely hanging on as it is. Much more strain and it will go under completely. And let me say, Mrs. Turner, it's much simpler to improve something we already have than to start from scratch."


	3. Chapter 3

"A missionary? Shelagh, I'm as far as you can get from a missionary." Patrick sat at his desk, a pile of files in front of him. Surgery was about to open, and after a morning of calls to head cold after head cold, he was not prepared to process Shelagh's news. In her excitement since the morning's interview, she had forgotten to plan a strategy. She would have to let him work through this on his own.

With a little help, of course.

"Actually, Patrick, that's not quite true. Even if you leave God out of it, you're as much a missionary as any religious evangelist. You do God's work every day, dearest."

Patrick leaned on the desk, his fingers twitching, pressed to his lips. Shelagh smiled. In the months since Patrick had "given up" cigarettes (not always successfully, she knew), his normal tics had shifted to mimic the old habit. She could see that he craved one now, and felt for him.

"It's too much, Shelagh. We're strapped here as it is. It's simply not possible."

Shelagh walked around the desk and took his face in her hands. "Anything's possible, Patrick. If I know anything, I know that."

They smiled, their own past a testament to that. Shelagh pressed a light kiss to his mouth. "Just think about it, dearest."

* * *

Surgery finshed, Patrick held out his wife's coat. "What about Nonnatus? They're understaffed, too. They couldn't possibly afford to lose nurses for so long."

"Mr. Taylor assured me that the Society has enough nurses and doctors here in England that could come and carry the load." She turned to face him. "And it's only for six weeks, Patrick. It's not forever."

He rolled his eyes. "I had a hard enough time leaving Poplar for a week camping, Shelagh. Imagine six weeks!"

She smiled and led the way out the Maternity Home.

* * *

"We could all go? There'd be a place for the children?" Patrick rolled up the remaining Christmas wrap. Perhaps his distracted mind explained the two gifts he had wrapped this evening to Shelagh's dozen.

Shelagh finished tying a bow to the festively wrapped gift before her. "Yes. Mr. Taylor said he could accommodate the children, if we like. Many of their missionaries have families that join them."

"I _couldn't_ leave you and the children, Shelagh. Not that I'm considering it, mind you."

Shelagh chuckled and placed the gift on top of the pile. "There, that's done. I'm glad I learned to get ahead of schedule after things were so busy last Christmas. Shopping's completed and everything's wrapped. All that's left to do is enjoy the peace of the last week of Advent."

She stood and stretched her back. "I'm for bed, Patrick. Could you put the gifts in the cupboard for me? Behind the old coats like before." She kissed the top of his head. "Come to bed soon, dearest."

"Timothy would never want to go." Patrick closed the bedroom door behind him.

"It's not for very long, Patrick. I'm sure Timothy would be able to manage to keep up with his studies, and I've never known a boy more interested in the outside world."

"But travelling with Angela would be impossible. She's never even been on a train."

"You keep using that word, Patrick. It's not impossible. It's hugely challenging, and we'll need to convince an awful lot of people to support the idea. But this mission is going to happen. The only remaining question is who will go?"

* * *

"Let's do it," he whispered in her ear. "Let's go to Africa."

Shelagh rolled over to face him. In the morning light, he always looked boyish, the glint of eagerness for the day and its challenges keen in his eyes. She had missed that of late.

His hands came to rest at her hips and he kissed her. "If you're completely certain," he said.

She smiled. "I couldn't be more certain."

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, I agree. They're not likely to bring Timothy or Angela along, bot for story reasons and practical filming purposes. And there's no evidence that either child is filming.

But this is alternate universe stuff. I'm just here for the ride.


	4. Chapter 4

The last Sunday of Advent marked a change in Nonnatus House every year, a shift from contemplation to anticipation. For the faithful, the celebration of the birth of Christ served to renew the spirit. For the others, the sense of tradition and custom helped to ease the stress and pain of life and gave the energy to push forward. After a particularly difficult autumn, the community of Nonnatus needed a new beginning more than ever.

To that end, a gathering had been called after Church services to present the planned mission. In quiet words, Patrick, Shelagh and Sister Julienne put forth the details and goals to a surprised room. By the time they were finished, the faraway world of the Eastern Cape of South Africa had replaced any thoughts of tree trimming and holiday baking.

"I would like to thank you all for your attention," Sister Julienne's restrained voice cloaked the room in calm. "The Order has committed to sending two nuns along with Dr. and Mrs. Turner, and Mr. Hereward has agreed to go to serve as a liaison with the local church authorities. Beyond that, everyone is free to decide for themselves."

"Thank you, Sister," Patrick joined. He spread his arms out, his hands wide open. "We realize this is unexpected, that we're asking for something quite extraordinary. But we are certain that if any group can help Hope Mission survive, it is this one."

Twelve people sat around the long table of the Nonnatus dining room considering the proposition before them. A six-week long mission to the South African bush was hardly what anyone expected when this meeting was called. Indeed, until an hour ago, the only thing on most minds was the enormous Christmas tree in the sitting room.

"Doctor, may I ask a question," Nurse Phyllis Crane's voice broke the silence.

"Of course."

Phyllis looked around the table, then turned her focus back on Patrick. "This all seems very much a rush job. Even if we were to bring in reinforcements for the community which we now serve, how could we possibly be expected to complete preparations in such a short time?"

Shelagh stood. "Nurse Crane, the Mission Society would make our efforts a priority. They are prepared to meet all of our needs, be it one nurse or ten."

Phyllis leaned forward, her chin against her fist. "This does require some thought."

"Yes, of course," Shelagh responded. She glanced around the table. "However, and I do see the difficulty here, we will need a decision from you as soon as possible if we are to assemble the team from other sources. There will, of course, be no expectation that any of you participates. We simply felt that the project should be presented to you before anyone else."

Phyllis nodded, then continued. "Mrs. Turner, I don't mean to be intrusive, but is it practical to consider bringing children on such a mission?"

Shelagh's lips pressed together and Patrick's hand reached for hers in support. She turned squarely to Nurse Crane and answered, "The Mission assures us that the children will be perfectly safe the entire time. Timothy may continue his studies whilst there, and a local woman will be found to assist in Angela's care." She met Phyllis' eyes determinedly. "As to whether or not it's practical, no, it probably isn't the most practical decision we've ever made. However, Dr. Turner and I feel there's much for Timothy to gain from this experience... and I couldn't bear to leave Angela behind, even for only six weeks."

Phyllis nodded in understanding. "Of course." She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. "Alright then, I suppose I'll have to start learning Afrikaans now. Or perhaps Xhosa! I've heard the clicking sounds are remarkably difficult to reproduce for the European tongue!" She looked around the table, her face eager for the adventure.

"Hear, hear, Nurse Crane," came Tom Hereward's voice from the far end of the table. He studiously avoided Barbara Gilbert's eyes.

"I can go, if the Mother House would like me to," volunteered Sister Mary Cynthia.

"As can I," added Sister Winifred.

Sister Julienne nodded in their direction. "Thank you both. I think it best if we sit together and decide amongst ourselves who should join the mission. There is also Sister Monica Joan to consider. We must not make the change to difficult for our sister. She has taken..." she paused to take a deep breath, "She has taken Sister Evangelina's death very hard and will require extra care."

"Well, I don't need to think about it," Trixie's voice came forcefully through the room. "I've always wanted to travel beyond France. This doesn't sound like The Grand Tour, but I'd love to see Africa." she looked at Sister Julienne. "Sister, if you're quite certain things will be managed without us, I would very much like to go."

The nun nodded. "Of course, but you might want to consider for a day or so?'

"No," Trixie smiled bravely. "I'm definitely on board. Who knows? This could be exactly the change I've wanted."

Patsy looked around the table. "I'm afraid I'm out. I can't speak for Delia, of course, but we've already booked our trip to Paris this spring. I'm not sure we could-" She met Delia's eyes across the table, and a moment of agreement passed between them.

"Of course not," Shelagh answered. "We're not looking for sacrifices from any of you. We hope that anyone who joins us will do so happily. Things will be difficult enough without anyone feeling uncomfortable with their decision."

"Then you can be sure to count on us to hold down the fort here, Shelagh." Patsy's confident smile was meant to reassure, and it did.

"Mrs. T, I'm not so sure why I'm here? There's not much I can do on the medical front, and no one's ever asked me to serve in the manner of a religious." Fred sat perched on a stool at the end of the table.

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged glances. "Fred, we were hoping you might consider coming along to provide some of your...special skills," Patrick told him. "From what we've been told, there's more than a bit of corruption in the local government, and we'll need someone who can act as a scrounger."

"Plus," Shelagh added, a sly smile lighting her face, "there's none better to play the Pied Piper when it comes time to dig the new wells. You could be a big help to us, Fred, but I know you may not want to leave Violet. There'll be no hard feelings if you decide to stay home."

He nodded. "I'll have to give it a good think. Plus, the Mrs. won't be none too happy if I don't discuss it wif her first."

"I suppose that leaves just me, then," Barbara Gilbert's voice piped up. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to her, and color came to her cheeks. "I'm not certain that my parents would approve of me going. They were unhappy enough when I told them I was coming to London if I'm honest." She looked about the room smiled her most "grown-up" smile. "Well hopefully, that's worn them down a bit. I'd hate for them to be disappointed when I tell them I'm going to Africa."

Shelagh squeezed Patrick's hand, her lips pressed together to hold back her excitement. "Well done. We couldn't have asked for more support. Thank you all so very much!" Unable to contain her joy, her smile burst forth and filled the room with brightness.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I"ve tried to be as accurate as possible with this chapter in order to explain some of the questions I have about how a team of nuns and medics from the poorest part of London could get to South Africa. (Hint: it involves a great deal of suspension of disbelief, a generous benefactor, two planes, a train and a bus, and two nights in hotels-What? you don't think that's realistic? It's AU, baby!).

Also, I've introduced apartheid and Homelands in this chapter and have tried to do so in a correct historical context of early 1962. Any errors are innocently meant. There are links below that will offer clarity.

One last thing. Did you know that a group of giraffes has two different collective nouns? A group of _standing_ giraffes is called a "tower," while a group of _running_ giraffes is called a "jenny."

Sometimes I really love English.

A battered train chugged through the pale yellow bushveld, lacking any of the urgency and determination of its European brethren. Miles distant, the blue shadows of the Great Escarpment jutted out from the veld, sequestering the Eastern Cape from the world. The sky glowed with a bright blue never seen in London, an enormous dome that refused admittance to any clouds.

It was as if God had used an entirely different palette of colors when He created this part of the world. Yellow and blue shimmered here in a way never seen on the sunniest day in England, challenging the eye to see more than it could. Green was deeper, darker and more mysterious than the pale greens of the English oak. Even the greys were different from London greys.

Within the first class carriage, Shelagh watched the scenery pass unchanged for miles. The pale gold of the mid-summer grasses was dotted with clumps of bushes and the occasional sinewy tree. The heat of the midday sun forced animals into shady spots, unseen from the train. In all, the effect was hypnotizing.

Shelagh shook herself from her quiet and stretched lightly. In the bench across from her, Angela lay curled up on Patrick's lap, the two lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the train. Shelagh smiled as she watched them breathe in tandem, Angela gently sucking her thumb as her father snored.

Not all of the passengers slept in the compartment. Sisters Julienne and Winifred both read from their Bibles. A catch-as-catch-can sort of schedule had been adopted for their daily offices, but both nuns were used to irregular schedules. Fred sat at an end of the car, a game of Solitaire spread out on the seat next to him. Trixie and Barbara sat across from Tom Hereward, a curious sort of trio. Timothy and Phyllis Crane sat in the first row of seats, eyes out the window as they catalogued everything they could see.

Shelagh rose and began to pace along the length of the car. No other passengers had joined them in this car since they had left the port city of East London, despite the activity at each stop. She paused for a moment to observe Fred's game, then tapped a card. He glanced up, then sheepishly shifted a stack. A moment with the sisters, another quiet conversation with the nurses, and she took a seat with her son.

"It's hard to believe we were having tea in Nonnatus house only three days ago," remarked Nurse Crane over the sound of the engine.

"It would have been much longer if we didn't have the Missionary Society escorting us everywhere," Timothy replied. Indeed, John Taylor had pulled enough strings to make the team from Poplar feel more like dignitaries than a travelling medical team. Missionary agents met the party each step of the way, paving over the arduous task of international travel. Acclimating new missionaries was a top priority of the Christian Missionary Society. There were struggles enough ahead that could cause attrition, getting the help to Africa was the very least that could be done.

Connecting flights had been arranged between Heathrow, Nairobi and East London, South Africa, effectively minimizing delays. At each stop along the way, a different Society representative greeted them and handled arrangements for nightly accommodations, as evening travel was unreliable. After an early flight to East London, they were escorted to a small hotel near the sea for the night. Worn out from the travel, they were grateful for a day of rest before boarding a train to Alice, situated twelve miles south of the Hope Mission.

Shelagh stretched her back and looked at the stack of books between her son and the no-nonsense nurse. Over the past weeks, Timothy and Phyllis Crane had formed an unexpected bond. While the others spent the last month of preparation in accumulating and packing supplies for the mission, they gathered every book, travel brochure and periodical they could, resulting in a collection of knowledge fit for the British High Commission in Pretoria. Timothy focussed on the flora and fauna of the region. Phyllis Crane was an expert in the unusual laws of the South African people.

"Though I suppose we'll be spending most of our time in Ciskei, what they call a 'homeland,' and not 'South Africa,' to be precise," Phyllis had informed the group at one of the gatherings before the departure. There was so much to organize in such a short time that semi-weekly meetings had been deemed necessary. Nonnatus House became a sort of home base for these meetings and a temporary center for the donations and medical supplies they would bring to Africa.

Patrick had looked up from the large box of medical syringes on the dining room table. "What do you mean, not 'South Africa'?"

"Just, that, doctor. _Officially_ , we are not going to be working in South Africa. Last year, the government of South Africa created specific areas within the nation with the express purpose of settling blacks within those borders. They're technically independent." She walked over to the impromptu map she had requisitioned from the Mission Society. "Hope Mission is located here," using her pen she pointed to a small area of the canvas. A rough outline had been marked in ink on the outdated map. "Just within the eastern border of Ciskei."

"The government forced people to leave their homes and settle somewhere else?" Trixie's voice showed her outrage.

"Yes." Phyllis capped her pen and faced the group.

"But why would they move people in the first place?" Patrick abandoned the syringes. "Why would they go to the effort of moving such a large number of people from their homes? It doesn't make sense."

Phyllis sighed, and folded her glasses back up, slipping them into her uniform pocket. "It seems the official stance on the subject is to grant a sort of _autonomy_ for the Blacks. The argument is that by keeping language groups together, with similar traditions, they will be able to govern themselves. However, from what I can determine, there's a much darker reason, I'm afraid."

"How do you mean?" Patrick questioned. By now, the attention of everyone in the room had shifted to Phyllis.

"South Africa has a rather difficult history, as you know. The apartheid system," she glanced around the room and saw the nods of understanding-everyone had done their homework it seemed- "has been in effect in fact if not official doctrine for a very long time. From what I can gather, the resettlement has more to do with sequestering the Blacks away from the Whites than granting independence. Technically, these four regions are independent, and not the responsibility of the South African government. By pretending these regions are no longer part of the official nation, the government can justify eliminating the few remaining political rights Blacks have within South Africa. Not to mention, if they can claim the homelands are not South African territory, the government has no reason to financially support the regions whatsoever."

"That would explain why Dr. Fitzsimmons sent out the call for help," mused Patrick. "A growing population and diminishing resources. We're all too familiar with that set of problems."

Phyllis looked about the room once more. "Doctor Turner is correct, I'm afraid. The problems of the Hope Mission are likely to be similar to problems we have encountered in Poplar, but I'm afraid that the scale will be on a level none of us have ever seen."

Less than a day after their arrival in South Africa, the rightness of Nurse Crane's words was becoming apparent. Signs hung above doors to businesses, hotels and even train carriages directing people along racial lines. Their train compartment was empty but for their party, as few whites were travelling, but the three cars in the rear were near overflowing. And while the medical team from Poplar enjoyed comfortable cushions and a clean car, the cars set aside for the Non-Whites were crowded and uncomfortable. Segregated by the invisible fence of custom and law, the tension here was certainly greater than back home.

Timothy glanced back at his sleeping father and sister. "Dad's snoring." he mocked. "He always snores when he sleeps sitting up. I don't know how Angela can always nap on his lap with that noise."

Shelagh grimaced. "Timothy, be nice. Your father works very hard. And I think your sister is delighted to spend time with him any way she can." She poked his shoulder and teased, "Just for that, _Mr. Always_ , you're on Angela duty when she wakes."

"I'd mind your mother, Timothy," Phyllis nudged. "I recall you were none to happy to be following your sister up and down the aisle on that aeroplane to Nairobi. My, that girl does have energy!"

Shelagh stood. "I'd better get back in case she does wake. Timothy, I have the last few biscuits if you're hungry."

"I'm always hungry," he quipped.

The scenery outside her window had not varied since her walk, so Shelagh turned her attention to the sleeping pair before her. Angela's skin was already pink from her afternoon at the ocean yesterday. Hopefully, she would be more willing to keep her dress on when there were no ocean waves to tempt her. One day in the surf and sand had convinced the little girl she should be a mermaid, and they were still finding contraband seashells in her pockets.

Patrick's face had some color too, and in his sleep, the stress of the last months eased. The new lightweight linen suit suited him, his lean figure cool and elegant in the pale tan material. Of all the tasks she had completed in preparation for the journey, shopping for a warm weather wardrobe for her family had been her favorite. Shelagh sighed lightly, and her eyes traveled back up to her husband's face.

His eyes were open, bright with a gleam meant for her alone. The slow smirk that crossed his face showed her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he winked. In an instant, Shelagh's dimple appeared and she shook her head at him coyly. She glanced about the carriage nervously, then seemed to make a decision. Her eyes on his, she slowly stretched across the space dividing them and skimmed his shin with her foot.

His eyes widened in surprise as he considered a response, but a snuffle from Angela broke the mood. "I'll remember that later, my love" Patrick whispered.

"Angela," Tim cried from his bench at the front of the car.

"Timothy," Shelagh shushed him. She turned to see the members of their group standing to look out the train windows on one side of the carriage. "What on earth?"

"Giraffes! Wake Angela! She'll want to see them!" Tim called over his shoulder.

Patrick carried his slowly rousing daughter to the wide window across the train. In the distance, marula trees appeared crowning over the bush, their wide crowns of leaves creating pools of shade on the sun-baked land.

"Look, Angela! What do you see?" Like the others, Patrick's voice was child-like with excitement.

"Raffe!" the little girl shouted. "Raffe!" She began to look about her frantically.

"Here you go, darling," Shelagh cooed, holding out a small wooden giraffe in her palm.

Angela clutched the figurine in her chubby hand and gave it a noisy kiss. "Raffe, Dada. See?" She pointed her hand at the tower of giraffes lazily nibbling on the bulbous fruit hanging from the branches. Patrick lowered her to stand on the seat next to her brother. "Raffes eating!" Her happy squeal was infectious.

"Yes, Angel girl, the giraffes are eating. And do you know who knows more about giraffes than anyone on this train, sweetheart?" Patrick's eyes widened in encouragement.

"Timofee!" Angela cheered. None but Timothy would do, now, and the boy pretended a groan.

Fred hunkered down on the next bench and adjusted the window to keep the excited two-year old within the train. "Well, little miss, I gotta tell ya. This sure ain't Poplar."

Here are some links to sites that may make this all make a bit more sense:

Photo: The Great Escarpment and the Bushveld

Map: South Africa

East London beach

South African Homelands


	6. Chapter 6

The road to Hope Mission was a relic from the days of British colonialism, a wide byway meant for wagons pulling crops and lumber to the frontier outpost of Alice. Years of neglect had left it barely driveable in parts, and the twelve miles to the mission were not kind to any vehicle, and the Mission's dusty maroon and tan bus did not make the journey gracefully.

"I never thought I'd miss the top of a double-decker barrelling down the commercial road," Trixie complained. She gripped the seat in front of her fiercely, trying to keep from tumbling to the floor.

"Think of it like this, Trixie," Barbara advised. "It's better than that old bus Tom uses for church trips!"

The two exchanged grins, ignoring the cry of protest from the vicar. The alliance between the two nurses had strengthened since the autumn, to the point where poor Tom sometimes felt like _he_ was the third wheel.

"You two young ladies are very ungrateful," Fred wagged a finger from his seat across the aisle. "That ol' omnibus has a history!"

"Yes, Fred. It's _Pre_ -Historic!" Trixie quipped.

The bus lurched in the road and sent up a cloud of dust behind it. "Better than an English rollercoaster," the driver called out with a cheerful laugh. Small and wiry, Jacob Arends drove with more enthusiasm than skill, but his wide grin and friendly manner had done more to settle nerves as the team completed the final leg of their journey than all the polished manners of the Mission Society escorts.

"Soon we will be at our Mission," he assured them over his shoulder. "We are most excited to have you stay."

"I would be _most excited_ if he didn't drive us into a ditch," Patrick muttered as he swayed with the bus's motion.

Shelagh's lips pressed together and she smoothed Angela's hair. The poor little girl was near the end of her tether with all the travel. "Almost there, darling, and then we'll let you have a nice run 'round. Patrick, you're just nervous. Dr. Fitzsimmons wrote to you for a reason, dearest, you're sure to help."

"Some boxes of supplies and a few weeks service. What do I know about bush medicine? I'm a place-filler until the Mission Society can get a trained mission doctor here, that's all." His crossed arms and pursed lips gave him a petulant look.

"Patrick," Shelagh soothed. Sometimes, she thought, her husband was his own worst enemy. He needed to be busy, and the forced idleness of these days of travel had left him to worry more than she liked. "You're more than trained for this. Certainly, we'll have challenges here, but it's not just your medical skills that will be of help here, dearest. You want to help people; you want to make their lives better. Dr. Fitzsimmons couldn't have made a better choice when she sent you that letter."

He glanced down at her bright blue eyes, full of encouragement and a reluctant grin tugged at the side of his mouth. "What would I do without you, Shelagh?"

"For one thing, you'd eat yourself sick. You certainly made a feast of the bobotie at the hotel last night!" Shelagh teased. Patrick was not the most adventurous of eaters, but their first official meal in South Africa had been a success.

His eyes lit up. "I only ate two servings last night! It's not my fault is was so much like your shepherd's pie."

"Flatterer, you had three servings, and you finished Angela's too."

"I was simply making sure she didn't let the sultanas go to waste."

" _And_ the mince, _and_ the crust, too, I'm certain." A dimple peeked out from Shelagh's suppressed grin.

Leaning in conspiratorially, Patrick whispered loudly, "Angela, I think Mummy's asking for a kiss."

"Dad," groaned the boy seated behind them. "Please don't embarrass me at the Mission with that mushy stuff. It's bad enough I have to see it at home."

Shelagh giggled. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Timothy dear."

Timothy rolled his eyes, then sat forward. "Mr. Arends said the next time he goes into Alice, he can take me to look at the University there. It's the only library in the whole region."

"We'll see, Tim," Patrick answered. "Let's get settled at the Mission before we make any plans. We're here for a purpose, not a sightseeing trip."

Jacob Arends had other ideas, it seemed, and he slowed the bus to point out features along the way. As they drove farther from Alice, the terrain began to change. The lonely thorn trees of the veld gave way to low bushes and tufts of pale grasses that swayed in the breeze, creating hiding places for the grazing animals as they took rest from the heat. Miles ahead, the green deepened, making a gradual climb up an imposing forested ridge.

"Up ahead, you see the mountain? That is Hogsback, most beautiful mountain God made. It is three, maybe four miles from our village, and the most lovely green mountain. The rivers there, they make waterfalls and a lake so deep there is no bottom."

The bus rumbled through a dense copse of trees, upsetting a flock of bright birds. "There!" called out Tom Hereward. "In the tree, monkeys!"

"Those are vervets, Mr. Vicar. They pose no danger to you, but they will steal the food from your hand if you are not careful," the driver advised.

"It'll be just like have Sister Monica Joan with us," laughed Trixie.

"Mr. Arends, what are those funny round buildings? We've seen them from the train, but could not place them," piped in Sister Winifred. A cluster of round buildings, bright with a white stucco and thatched roofs sat upon a swell in the plain.

"Those are rondavels. They are Xhosa homes," his voice clicked on the name.

"But why are they round?" Sister Winifred asked. "It seems a funny sort of shape for a building."

"Why would they _not_ be round? A square house, it has too many corners for snakes to hide."

A low groan came from the back of the bus. A self-appointed quartermaster, Fred kept watch over the fragile boxes of medical equipment. "Snakes? " his voice was high. "I hate snakes!"

Jacob Arends shook his head sagely as he looked back in the rearview mirror. "Then I am very sorry for you, my new friend."

Another turn and the road moved north from the river. The bus groaned, demanding its rest, and lumbered another hundred yards before it passed under an old iron gate. Blaring the horn, Jacob read the sign aloud, "Welcome to Hope Mission!"

A collection of one-storey buildings, the mission nestled in a large clearing guarded by two gnarled olive trees. The stucco of its white stone walls gleamed brightly in the sun, topped by a steeply sloped tin roof, and was bookended by two symmetrical additions. Tall casement windows segmented the facade, high off the ground. A set of stone steps led up to a low belfry, welcoming visitors.

To the left of the main building, a long dormitory stretched to the back of the clearing, a row of windows chasing down its length. On the other side of the main building stood several smaller, squat buildings, each with a clear purpose. Located closest to the well-pump, these buildings housed the kitchens, a laundry, and a generator room.

Eleven sets of anxious eyes peered out the bus windows. Six weeks of preparation suddenly did not seem like such a long time. "It's square," gulped Sister Winifred.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick stood and approached the front of the bus. "Thank you, Mr. Arendt. You've been most kind." He turned to the team before him. "I want to thank you all, as well. I couldn't possibly here manage without you."

"We are all behind you, Doctor Turner," Sister Julienne assured him. "If I might say a small prayer?"

He nodded. "Of course, Sister."

Sister Julienne stood at her place and began, "Oh. Lord, guide us as we strive to carry out your work. Help us to bring healing and mercy to those in need, and give us the wisdom to learn more than we can teach. Amen."

Jacob hopped down the bus steps and called out to the people that had begun to gather outside the bus, his voice clicking with sounds still strange to those used to the pattern of English, and a young boy ran to ring the mission bell.

One by one, the weary team stepped down from the bus into the bright sunlight, nervous smiles answering the dark cheerful faces before them.

Jacob turned his attention back to the group. "I am told Dr. Fitzsimmons is in the ward, she will be here quite soon, doctor," Jacob announced. "Please, you must all follow me." He stepped toward the main building, but before he could lead the group in, a woman rushed down the front steps.

"Patrick Turner!" she called. "I knew you were the man to count on!"

* * *

A/N: The image I've used to base my Mission is that of a missionary school for Bantus near Middelburg, Transvaal, taken in September of 1964. You can find it here.

.

Xhosa (pronounced Kosa in English) in a South African language that features clicks as part of its phonetics. This video

( watch?v=31zzMb3U0iY)

will give you an idea of how the sounds are made. Careful, though. If you're anything like me, you'll find yourself practicing for hours!


	7. Chapter 7

To eyes used to the sights and sounds of Britain, there was nothing in Dr. Myra Fitzsimmons' appearance to make her stand out from a crowd. Of medium height and build, she wore a simple green shirtwaister and sturdy shoes, her chin-length hair severely brushed back from her face. She could have been any woman shopping in the high street in Poplar.

Despite this, she was a handsome woman, her features sharp and strong. There was a squareness to her jaw that was offset by a pointed chin and thin nose, and bright blue eyes peered from beneath her dark brows. Deep lines carved her cheeks and forehead, arcing around her eyes and hinting at a passionate nature kept firmly in check. The effect gave one the sense that she knew more than she let on.

The small crowd parted to make a path and Dr. Fitzsimmons strode across the yard to greet the newcomers. She smiled, and her face warmed immediately. "I can't thank you enough, Patrick." She reached out her hands, grasping his while she examined his face. "My, it's been a long time. You're not the boy you were back in medical school."

Patrick's eyes widened. "I should hope not! It's good to see you, Myra. The years have been kind to you."

She grimaced sardonically and turned to the rest of the group. The moment of lightness disappeared from her face as she became formal once again. When she spoke, her voice was low and throaty. It pulled the listener in and commanded attention in its quietness. "I must thank you all as well. You've undergone a difficult journey and set aside your own lives to help us. I hope we can show you how very grateful we are."

"Your gratitude is unnecessary, Dr. Fitzsimmons," Sister Julienne answered. "We, all of us, are glad of the opportunity to offer assistance. Let us begin as friends and work together to strengthen your Mission."

Patrick shifted towards the group, "Dr. Fitzsimmons, I'd like to present Sister Julienne, who runs Nonnatus House and administers to our community in ways I never can." He moved through the group, making introductions until he came back to his family. "And this is Timothy, our son, who will be quite happy to learn all he can from you. Feel free to make him toe the line as you did me."

"It's very nice to meet you, Dr. Fitzsimmons," Timothy extended his hand.

"And you, Timothy. You look quite a bit like your father, are you as bright as he is as well?"

"I hope to be, ma'am," Timothy answered. He reached out his hand and was met with a firm handshake.

Patrick lifted his daughter up in his arms and turned to reveal the little face hiding in his shoulder. "This is Angela, whom I'm afraid keeps me very tightly wrapped around her finger. She's a bit shy at first, but I warn you, if you're not careful, she'll be running your entire Mission."

Dr. Fitzsimmons smiled politely at the child's head. "I'm sure," she answered. " We have a girl ready to care for the child as soon as you like."

"Yes, we'll need that, thank you. And finally, I'd like to present my wife, Shelagh."

The voice that welcomed Shelagh was cool. "Of course. I'm very grateful you could join your husband, Mrs. Turner. I hope that you will enjoy your stay here."

Two pale pink spots appeared in Shelagh's cheeks, and when she replied, her voice was strangely formal. "Thank you, Doctor. We're most eager to offer assistance."

Before Shelagh could say more, Dr. Fitzsimmons turned to the group. "That's enough for introductions. I'm certain I shall forget most of your names-you'll have to forgive me-but we are truly grateful you've come. I'll let you get settled, and tonight at dinner we can all become better acquainted. Our staff here will join us, and you'll be prepared to begin work tomorrow, as well.

She gestured to the young woman lingering near the bus. "Kholeka will lead you to the dormitory, and you can refresh yourselves after your trip. Jacob, please-"

Jacob appeared from nowhere at her side. "Yes, Doctor. The luggage is on its way to the rooms. But the boxes, I do not know where they should go."

Shelagh tugged lightly on Patrick's sleeve. "I'll manage the children and the rooms, Patrick. You go with Dr. Fitzsimmons and see to the medical equipment. It will give you a chance to catch up."

A small frown appeared between his brows. "Are you certain, Shelagh? There'll be plenty of time later, perhaps you and I could take care of the supplies toget-"

"No, Patrick," Shelagh insisted. "I'll be fine on my own. I have Timothy, don't forget."

He nodded, the frown not completely leaving his face. "I'll be back to clean up before dinner." He touched her hand. "Thank you, Shelagh."

She reached up and took the clinging child, then followed the rest to the long low building. The crowd had dispersed, and the two old friends stood together watching as she disappeared into their temporary home.

"She's a pretty little thing, your wife." Myra Fitzsimmons' voice broke the quiet.

"Shelagh? I wouldn't let her hear you say that if I were you." He glanced over, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. "I've seen her move a pack of dockworkers with a single command, and she's the most skilled midwife I've ever worked with."

Dr. Fitzsimmons nodded, her face showing a certain skepticism. "She's much younger than I expected. Your son is-what-fifteen? She must have been very young when you married her." An implication hung in the air between them.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and regarded her calmly. "Shelagh's not my first wife, Myra. Timothy's mother died five years ago-cancer. We were adrift, Tim and I, and then … then Shelagh and I found each other. It was her idea that we come here. She's the force behind all this, Myra. She convinced me, the Mission Society-it was really quite tremendous. Every person on our team is here because of her efforts."

"I am sorry, Patrick. I should never have said-I'm too used to speaking my mind before I've let it do the thinking. I suppose I've grown too used to being lord of my own little fiefdom." Turning, she began to walk towards the main building.

"You'll see. Humility was never a cloak I wore well. If we weren't in such straits, you'd still be back in London."

An hour later, Patrick entered the dormitory. He peered down the long corridor, dim even in its whiteness. The only light came from the door behind him and a single window at the end. The walls were covered in limed planks of wood, the floor finished with the same whitewash, yet the dimness made the space feel cooler. A half dozen transomed doors marched down each side.

He considered calling out, but the quiet hinted that his new housemates were resting and would not welcome his interruption. Nor did he wish to knock on each door as he made his way down the hall. He smiled crookedly as his eyes caught a bright blue scarf tied to a doorknob near the entrance. Leave it to Shelagh to choose the room that gave him best access out for emergencies.

He quietly turned the knob, half hoping to find his wife napping. He loved watching her sleep, almost as much as he loved waking her. The thought of a quiet hour resting against her appealed. Instead of lying in repose, a calm beacon to his anxious soul, Shelagh stood near the single wardrobe, unpacking.

"Always busy," he teased. He slid his jacket from his shoulders and hung it on a hook behind the door.

Shelagh grinned. "Always much to do."

"The children?"

"They're in the room next door. We've set up a little camp cot for Angela, but I'm afraid she'll have to move in with us, Patrick. There's a bit too much freedom for her over there."

"Shelagh, we've only just gotten our room to ourselves."

"I know, dearest, but Kholeka tells me they have no cots her size. Apparently children here sleep on the floor."

His eyebrow flew up.

"No, Patrick," Shelagh scolded. "We are not making our child sleep on the wooden floor where who knows what manner of creepy crawlies wander about. Besides, what if she got the door open and wandered off somewhere?" She handed him his medical bag. "Here, put this on the desk."

Outmaneuvered, he gave in and looked about the room. In addition to the broad wardrobe, there were few pieces of furniture in the room. A narrow chair partnered a wooden camp desk, and in the corner, a washstand served as a reminder that the plumbing facilities they could expect would be less than optimal. A large white iron bed stood out from the opposite wall, the space beneath it open and airy. A large mosquito net hung from above, offering the only softness in the room.

"Kholeka told me we would have to share this bed. They don't have enough single beds for us all, apparently." Shelagh finished hanging her uniform and gave it a tweak. She closed the wardrobe and turned back to her husband.

"I think we'll manage," Patrick answered. He crossed the room and gathered his wife into his arms. He buried his face in her neck, and the two stood still for a long moment.

Shelagh pressed a kiss to his temple. "How is it?" she asked. "Is it what you expected?"

He pulled away and rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm not sure what I expected. The facilities are...primitive, certainly. There's electricity in the main building, but the generator is unreliable, and there's no hot water. They have a room solely for boiling gallons of it throughout the day. The operating room that would make Lister cringe. It's surprisingly clean, though, and the ward is as efficient as any at the London."

"Comes from Dr. Fitzsimmons' years as a nurse, I daresay," Shelagh teased.

A laugh escaped him. "Undoubtedly." he grew serious again. "Myra's the only doctor, though she has a staff of locals that handle much of the care. I'm not certain, but I think one or two of them are working as _de facto_ doctors, simple procedures and the like. The Mission covers ten square miles, most of it without proper roads, so they've learned to manage as best they can."

He exhaled sharply. "We may have bitten off more than we can chew, my love. I hope to God we don't choke."


	8. Chapter 8

A bright dawn filtered through the louvered shutters of the room, coaxing Shelagh from sleep. New morning sounds, so different from the street hubbub of the East End,rose in a slow crescendo. Strange birds called into the quiet, an insect droned outside the window as it hovered in the honeysuckle. The familiar sound of Patrick's breath sussed in her ear and she smiled. This moment was only for her, no demands, no concerns, just the warmth of her husband's arms. He was pressed up against her, his arm over her side and his nose in her hair.

Her eyes flickered open. The room seemed misty, and between the netting and her own poor vision, the blur intensified the sense of seclusion. After days of near constant company, she wanted to enjoy the self-indulgence of this moment. Soon enough, Angela would stir in her camp bed a few feet away and usher in the demands of the world.

Shelagh felt a return of the anxiety she had felt throughout the previous day. Weeks of planning and preparation had in some ways distracted her from the actual mission, and now she felt uncertainty begin to creep in. Why did she feel the need to prove herself yet again?

Down the hall, the nuns would be preparing to leave for morning Lauds in the small chapel on site. Shelagh considered joining them, the decided against it. Perhaps later. Her own morning routine of meditation and prayer filled that void, whilst allowing her to remain with her family. The privacy of her own prayer had become quite special to her since leaving the sisterhood, a moment of serenity and thankfulness for the gift of her second life.

Slow breaths filled her lungs, flooding her body with oxygen. She let the air reach deep into her body as her mind cleared. Worries about the children, about Patrick, even her own worries for this mission faded as the well-remembered Breviary repeated in her head and she found her serenity.

Her prayers came to a close and she returned to an awareness her place. Patrick was awake now, waiting for her to finish. "Morning," he whispered in her ear. His voice had a husky tone in the morning that stirred her in ways she knew would not be fulfilled now, but for a moment, she let herself enjoy the warm glow of anticipation. They would have to find a solution to the dilemma of Angela's sleeping arrangements.

She turned her head to see him and was kissed for her efforts. His long fingers glanced along the vulnerable line of her throat, stroking the length of her neck as it stretched towards him. The kiss was slow and tender, and for a moment, they were lost to the world.

"Mama, up!" Angela's voiced piped across the fog of desire, breaking them apart.

Startled, Shelagh turned her head. Under a shock of pale blonde hair, a pair of brown eyes peered over the top of the mattress, two chubby arms outstretched.

"Angela! You startled me!"

"Mama, up!" The little girl demanded. Patrick's answering groan expressed his displeasure, and Shelagh squeezed his hand in support.

"Mama. Up." Angela was growing impatient.

"Too little to climb up, are we, my wee girlie," her mother teased.

"That's one way to keep her out of our bed," grumbled Patrick. "She goes back to her room tonight, Shelagh."

Shelagh tossed a wry grin back at her husband and pulled Angela up from under the mesh netting. The child scrambled under the thin covers and pressed against her mother. Giving in, Patrick raised his arm and pulled them both in close.

"Good morning kisses, Angela?" Shelagh coaxed.

Angela's lips smacked the air loudly, her real attention on the teddy bear in her hands. "Monkey," she cooed.

"You don't have to beg _me_ for kisses, my love," Patrick teased. Shelagh glanced up, her eyes showing her opinion of his taunt.

"Yes, darling. You're a monkey." Shelagh turned back and tapped a gentle finger to the girl's button nose.

"No, Mama. Monkey." Angela pointed her finger at the window.

Lazily, their eyes followed her direction. Just outside the window was a monkey nearly the size of Angela herself. It paused in its casual breakfast of palm fronds to turn and look back at them. Shelagh gasped, and moved to block her daughter from the monkey's sight. Patrick leapt up released a low growl, and the monkey scampered away.

He turned back to his wife and daughter. "Are you alright?" He asked. He was breathing heavily.

Shelagh began to giggle, and the sound stirred Angela from her silence. "Monkey!" She cheered.

Patrick dropped on the bed. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this!"

A scream rose out from somewhere down the hall.

"Monkey!" Angela crowed again.

Struggling into his dressing gown, Patrick ran out into the hall. Doors along the corridor opened, and tousled heads poked out.

"It came from down there, Dad," Timothy pointed. He followed his father past nurses and nuns to the last door. About to knock, they were startled when Fred appeared, his face ashen.

"A gorilla! There was a gorilla outside my window!" In his haste to escape some great beast, he had left his dressing gown behind and stood in his unmentionables. He clenched a rolled up copy of the Sporting Life in his hand as if he had discovered its more useful purpose: Safari security.

Patrick blinked and struggled to keep the grin from his face. "A gorilla, Fred? Are you alright?"

The large man sighed heavily and leant against the doorjamb. "My heart is pounding like a train! I had no idea we'd be face to face with King Kong!"

Patrick nodded, his face a study in physician's calm. "Yes, well, I'm glad you're not harmed, Fred. I'll leave you to get dressed, shall I?"

Fred huffed and closed his door.

As Patrick and Timothy returned to their rooms, Timothy muttered, "There aren't any gorillas for two thousand miles!"

Trixie laughed. "It's a good thing, too. I have no desire to act the part of Faye Wray, even to save Fred."


	9. Chapter 9

At precisely ten minutes before eight that morning, a young boy scampered up the stone steps to the Mission. He peeked in the entrance, then called out a few words in his native tongue. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to his assigned task and unwound a length of rope from a cleat on the stuccoed wall. He stayed there motionless until he heard a voice call out, then with a swift yank of the rope, he used his four stone to ring the morning bell.

Almost instantly, children came running into the open yard from every direction, their voices filling the air with cheerful chatter. By the time the last bell had sounded, the children were lined up in orderly rows, smallest to tallest, and stood silently as they awaited the start of the day.

The newest student watched from the side, nerves beginning to show. He glanced at his mother. "I'm older than all of them," Timothy muttered.

"It does seem that way," Patrick answered. "But you'll be working on your own assignments, it won't matter much anyway."

"Yes, but Dad, we're here for _so long_. I thought maybe I'd meet _some_ people my own age. I can't spend all my time with Angela and Nurse Crane." He shifted his bookbag on his thin shoulder.

An elderly man shuffled out from the dim school building. His white hair and beard stood in stark contrast to the darkness of his skin and despite his slow gait, he held himself erect.

"Good morning, children," he called out in a deep and melodious voice.

"Good morning, Utitshala!" Twenty young voices called in return.

The teacher stood to one side of the doorway. "You may come in now."

Obediently, the children proceeded into the little school house. As the last child entered,the old man turned to Timothy. "You must be my new charge," the man said. "I am Philip Nkosi, but you may call me "Utitshala," which means 'teacher.'" He leaned in conspiratorially. "I must say I am very excited to have you here, young friend. We shall learn much from each other, I am certain."

His easy manner seemed to relax Timothy, and the boy smiled. "I'm sure I have much more to learn from you, sir."

Utitshala smiled, revealing strong white teeth. "You will do, Timothy Turner. And soon, you shall meet my young friend Stephen. He will come soon, and you shall have a friend." He turned to Patrick and Shelagh and held out his hand. "Thank you for the gift of your son, Dr. and Mrs. Turner. I shall do my best to stay out of the way of his progress."

Patrick shook his hand gratefully. "Thank you sir. We appreciate you accommodating our son during our stay."

"We have much to learn from one another, Doctor, far beyond the academic. But there is a daughter, I was told." He looked to Shelagh.

"Yes, Utitshala, but she is quite young. Angela will stay with Kholeka whilst I am at the hospital."

The teacher nodded sagely. "Kholeka is a wise choice. She has raised four of her brothers and sisters already. She was quite a good student herself when she was in my school, but her family's need was great. Well, then, Timothy Turner, shall we begin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I shall follow you, as all good teachers must. Good day, Dr. Turner, Mrs. Turner."

They watched as their son entered the building. Patrick glanced at his watch impatiently. "We'll be late, Shelagh."

Her clear blue eyes turned their focus to him. He was nervous, she knew. She reached her hand out to his and gripped it tightly. "Then I shall follow you."

Despite Patrick's fears, the team had yet to gather in the empty east wing of the hospital. Only Fred and Nurse Crane had arrived, and both had taken the time to settle in according to character. Whilst Nurse Crane stood by the crates of medical supplies taking inventory, Fred had settled himself in a cool corner, his worn pack of cards already spread out before him.

"Mornin', Doc, Mrs. T," he called. "Looks like we've got our work set out for us, don't it?"

The room, though clean, had all the hallmarks of a long-abandoned hall. The plaster walls were yellowed with age, the institutional brown paint on the lower half chipping away like an old fresco. Natural light glowed from the large windows and doors, the brown mullions creating a patchwork of glass. Ceiling fans circulated the air.

"It certainly does, Fred. Hopefully, we can get this place sorted and then you can get started on the water supply situation. The Mission Society promised to send a hot water heater, but apparently it's not yet arrived." Shelagh walked along the rows of rough hewn furniture stacked against the back wall, creating a plan as she went.

Patrick lifted the lid of an ancient Red Cross bin and peered inside in distaste. "I'm not sure even _you_ can make something of this place, Shelagh." He dropped the lid and brushed the rust from his hands.

Shelagh glanced back over her shoulder. "Have no fear, Doctor Turner. This place has good bones, I'm sure we'll make it work." She teased, "Remember what I did with you."

Fred chortled. "I'm afraid she has ya there, Doc."

Phyllis looked up from the clipboard in her hands. "Between what was here already and the supplies we brought along with us, it seems we have nearly enough to set up as soon as possible, Mrs. Turner." She handed the papers to Shelagh.

Shelagh nodded and her shoulders lifted with excitement. "We'll have this place sorted in no time."

"Sorry, Mrs. Turner," Trixie's voice interrupted as she and Barbara Gilbert came through the door. "I simply had to get my "Keep Fit" exercises done this morning, and I convinced Barbara join me. Just because we're on a different continent is no excuse to let ourselves go." A quick giggle took the edge off her words.

"I'm hardly letting myself go, Trixie," Barbara muttered.

"You always thank me in the end," came Trixie's response. She turned about, taking in the room.

"I'm always thankful that it's over, anyway." Barbara dropped a bag filled with pamphlets on the nearest table.

Trixie turned about in place, taking in the room. "What a perfectly inspiring place. I can imagine Clark Gable wooing Grace Kelly in a place exactly like this."

"I'm not certain a double feature of Mogambo and The African Queen was a good idea the week before we left, Nurse Franklin," Phyllis Crane admonished. "We're not likely to run into any Hollywood types here, I'm sure."

Trixie sighed in resignation. "Yes, I suppose my dating life will be even more disappointing here than it was in Poplar. Oh, well. More energy for this!"

"I can't imagine you not having energy for anything, Nurse Franklin," Sister Winifred teased.

"Thank you, Sister. I must say, the two of you look so much cooler in these new linen habits. Can you imagine how frightfully uncomfortable your heavy blue habits would be right now? And it's still morning!" Trixie continued to chatter, filling the silence.

Sister Julienne smiled enigmatically, and changed the subject. "Sister Winifred and I spent some time in hospital this morning. It's rather bereft of patients at the moment, I'm afraid."

"That's precisely our problem, Sister." Dr. Fitzsimmon's voice answered. Immediately, the focus of the room shifted. "The community is reluctant to come to us, therefore we must go out to them, and our resources are stretched beyond their limit. We seem to be putting out fires rather than preventing them in the first place. It's my hope that by creating this clinic we shall bring the community to the Mission."

Her face remained impassive as she glanced about the room, measuring each newcomer in a look. Her eyes came to rest upon Shelagh. "Mrs Turner, I did not realize you would be working with us as well. Though, of course, we are happy to accept any assistance."

Shelagh felt the air leave her lungs. Conscious of several pairs of eyes upon her, her voice was composed. "Yes, Dr. Fitzsimmons, I'm looking forward to it."

"I think you'll find, Dr. Fitzsimmons, that Mrs. Turner is precisely the person you want setting up your clinic. We couldn't do without her in Poplar." Sister Julienne's eyes met Shelagh's for a quick moment, and for the moment the tension that had existed between the two women for the last months disappeared.

Further discussion was interrupted by the insistent sound of a horn blaring in the front yard.

"Damn," Myra Fitzsimmons muttered. "I'd hoped he wouldn't descend upon us so soon."

She turned to the team before her. "I'm afraid you are all about to see the dark side of South Africa."


	10. Chapter 10

A large Range Rover pull in front of the hospital, stirring up great clouds of dust. A man in uniform jumped nimbly down from the driver seat and called out a sharp command. Immediately, a young woman appeared at the mission entrance. Her eyes never met his as she answered him in Afrikaans and gestured to the east wing of the building.

The man had all the bearings of one confident of his own authority. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform as an emblem of dominance. His face was strong-boned, nearly leonine, with a closely cropped moustache and his hair combed severely from his face. His expression did not attempt to hide his disdain for his surroundings.

"The less you all say, the better," Dr. Fitzsimmons advised the team as they watched him advance up the front steps. Her spine had stiffened more than before as if she were arming for battle. "He is not our friend."

Clipped footsteps echoed in the hall, coming to a halt at the large glass-paned doors. "Dr. Fitzsimmons! I am so very sorry to have missed your guests when they were in Alice. They must think me so very rude." The smooth words seemed incongruous with the harsh timbre of his voice, and a chill came over the room.

"Sergeant Du Plessis, how kind of you to come all the way to our Mission to greet our guests. We're honored." Dr. Fitzsimmons' voice was cool.

The police officer cocked his head slightly. "I am glad to hear it, Doctor. I wouldn't want to think they were avoiding me. They haven't even met me yet!" A laugh forced itself out. "Let us make up for the...omission… and make a new start."

He turned towards the group. "If I may introduce myself, gentleman and ladies, "I am Sergeant Willem Du Plessis. I serve as Commandant of the Alice Branch of the South African Police. As such, you can understand why I am most concerned that I was unable to greet you upon your arrival in my jurisdiction." His eyes swept over the occupants of the room, measuring up each person. He let his eyes rest on Trixie for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to Patrick and extended his hand.

"I'm glad to see another man here to take charge," he greeted.

Patrick's eyes were flat as he grasped the hand before him. He had encountered enough misogynistic bullies in his day to know that it was better to manipulate them than antagonize them.

"Dr. Patrick Turner, London. It's a pleasure to be here, Sergeant. I'm certain we'll be very grateful for any assistance you can give us during our stay."

"And exactly how long is your stay, Doctor? I like to keep informed of these things, you understand."

Dr. Fitzsimmons interrupted. "Dr. Turner and his team will be here only long enough to help us set up a new clinic and then they must return to England, I'm afraid. You've caught us just as we were about to move the furniture about, Sergeant."

The sergeant slowly turned his head back to her. "You've asked them to come all the way from England to move furniture?" A threat lingered in the air. "I am aware that your guests came with more than a few trunks of linen suits, Myra."

She stiffened at the use of her first name. "Some bandages and cotton wool, that's all, I'm afraid. Times are hard for missionaries, I'm afraid, Sergeant. We're fortunate to simply have warm bodies to help."

The policeman bristled. "I have not come all this way to be hoodwinked, Dr. Fitzsimmons. Surely you do not expect me to believe that the Mission Society has gone to such expense to send a few nurses to coddle your...patients. I fully expect you to share the bounty of your visitors with the people who _truly_ have need in our community."

Sister Julienne stepped forward. "Sergeant Du Plessis, please allow me to extend our most heartfelt thanks for your assistance in our mission. The Reverend Hereward is occupied at the Mission Church, and will be so very disappointed to have missed you this morning. I am Sister Julienne, and this is Sister Winifred. You can be assured that we will remember you in our prayers."

Unable to ignore the nun, Sergeant Du Plessis gave her his full attention. "Of course, I am honored, Sister. And I would consider it most helpful if you were to turn your efforts to influencing the Mission staff to be as cooperative."

During this exchange, Shelagh slipped behind Fred, his size shielding her from the police officer's view. "Fred, don't move," she whispered. "Just follow my lead."

The Sergeant continued, his voice now more controlled. "The Mission is quite fortunate to have such support from the English. Of course, I would not begrudge you any assistance, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We are fortunate to have all the medical personnel we require for our goals in Alice. As you can imagine, however, we can always use medical supplies." His eyes fell on the clipboard clasped in Shelagh's arms and held out his hand. "Surely there is something here you could share with us?"

Reluctantly, Shelagh passed the paperwork to him. Long moments went by as they all watched the man scan the sheets of inventory. He looked up and handed the clipboard back to Shelagh. "There, you see? Plenty of medical supplies here for us all. You certainly wouldn't mind sharing some of your bounty, would you, Nurse-?" His eyes passed over Shelagh insolently.

"Nurse Turner, and of course, we'll be happy to share, Sergeant. Fred, will you please help Sergeant Du Plessis with one or two of those boxes?"

Doctor Fitzsimmons stiffened with shock. Du Plessis smirked triumphantly, and his voice oozed into pleasantness. "That won't be necessary, Nurse Turner. There are plenty of kaf-"

"I'll call Jacob to help, Sergeant," Myra Fitzsimmons' voice broke in.

He turned quickly back to face her, their eyes locked in a challenge. After a moment, Du Plessis's eyes blinked slowly and an unpleasant smile crossed his face. "Of course, Myra. Jacob will do just as well. Doctor Turner, I look forward to working with you again." He gave a sharp salute and left the building. Without being called, Jacob Arens and two young women slipped into the room and carried the boxes out to the vehicle.

The truck roared as is left the yard. "Well," Trixie breathed, "That was rather an unfriendly welcome committee."

"I'm afraid it won't be the last time you see him, especially if we're giving away precious supplies. We'll never get antibiotics from the government, and now Du Plessis knows the Mission is sending them, he'll be on every shipment." Doctor Fitzsimmons face was tight with anger.

"I offered no medications to the Sergeant, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We've sent him off with a few crates of bandages, that's all." Shelagh crossed the room and held out the clipboard. Accepting it, the mission doctor rifled through the pages, then gave it back in distaste. "I rather thought you were bringing more than a few plasters and cotton wool, Patrick."

"I'm a bit confused," Phyllis Crane wondered aloud. "Why was he content to leave the antibiotics behind?"

Fred sauntered up to the front of the group. "Perhaps because he didn't know they were there?" He drew a sheaf of papers from his back pocket and put them back on the clipboard.

"Fred? How on earth-" Patrick asked.

He grinned at Shelagh. "Mrs. Turner's quick thinkin', Doc. While his nibs was yammerin' on, yer wife slipped the papers in my back pocket."

"Shelagh! What if you'd been caught? Du Plessis is a dangerous man. If he finds out you kept antibiotics from him, there'll be hell to pay. You promised there'd be no danger, and our first day, you walk right into it." His eyes glittered with concern.

"No one here will say anything, Doctor Turner," Phyllis's brisk voice blanketed the room in calm. "I rather think we all know what we're up against now."

* * *

Historical note:

The South African Police served as more than the police force of South Africa in the years 1913-1994. "Beyond the conventional police functions of upholding order and solving crime, the SAP employed counter-insurgency and intimidation tactics against anti-apartheid activists and critics of the white minority government." Wikipedia

Sergeant Du Plessis was inspired by a pic posted on Twitter by a likely South African cast member. Unfortunatley, I can't post it here, but you can find it on MyLittleYellowbird. com.


	11. Chapter 11

"At this rate, we'll be finished with plenty of time for me to get some sun." Trixie's voice trilled in the air outside the clinic as she nudged past Barbara on the mission steps.

"Trixie, must you keep going past me? I'll never get rid of this headache." Barbara grimaced and rubbed her forehead. "I knew it would be hot, but this is ridiculous."

"Take an aspirin, silly. Even a glass of water will help. You're probably dehydrated." Trixie was immune to the heat, it seemed, and had little sympathy for the young nurse.

"I don't want to take from their supplies, Trixie. You heard Dr. Fitzsimmons. If we start using up tablets, there'll be none left for the patients. Especially with that horrid Sergeant coming by to raid the mission."

Trixie spun around and stared at Shelagh, her eyes wide. "I still can't get over how you dared, Shelagh! That man was truly frightful. He practically threatened us." Two days had done little to diminish the sense of foreboding the man had brought with him.

Shelagh picked up the last of the wooden examination screens Fred was working on and handed them to Trixie. "We didn't come all this way to wrap sprained ankles, that's all there was to it. Now, these screens are the last of it. If you two can set them up around the tables, the hall will be all set for tomorrow's clinic. Fred, you've been very helpful. We'll miss you when you're working on the well."

"Happy to be of service, Mrs. T. I just hope Reverend Hereward is able to drum up as much help as we've had here in the clinic." Fred, unlike Trixie, felt the heat sorely. "If you won't be needin' me, I'll take my leave of you ladies until dinner."

Shelagh waved the tired man goodbye and watched as Trixie and Barbara disappeared through the mullioned doors with the examination screens. She felt a wave of satisfaction come over as she considered how much they had accomplished already. A working clinic had risen up from the barren hall in a few short days, ready to handle a semi-weekly influx of patients. If only they could be certain the patients would come.

seemed less optimistic about the success of the Hope Clinic. Over dinner the evening of DuPlessis's visit, she had explained why.

"The trouble is, the people won't come to us. Indeed, many will only call on our help when they've tried all else. It's taken me years to build up enough trust to walk among them." Her eyes travelled around the table. "No matter how smart we make the clinic look, or well-stocked its supplies, if they won't come to us, it's all useless."

In the days since, Patrick had accompanied Fitzsimmons on her calls in an effort to make the locals feel more comfortable with the upcoming changes, and several of the nurses and nuns joined the Mission's workers on calls out in the community. Each night the teams returned no more confident in their success.

Shelagh sighed. Her hopes for a rejuvenation of her husband's spirits dimmed, and she wondered if perhaps she had been wrong to encourage him.

"Mama!" a well-loved little voice called across the yard.

Shelagh turned to the sound and lowered herself as Angela ran to her. The little girl's arms hugged tightly around her mother's neck.

"I am most sorry, Mrs. Turner," Kholeka told her as she joined the two. "I did not know you would be out here. Miss Angela woke from her nap and was quite insistent that we take a walk. We shall leave you to your work."

With a chuckle, Shelagh shifted her daughter into a more comfortable position on her hip. "Oof, Angela, you're getting too big for Mummy to carry. It's fine, Kholeka. We've finished for today, anyway. You go on home if you like, I'll take this little angel now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Turner. My mother will be very happy to have another helper at home. Oh, and Mrs. Turner," she added as she began to leave, "Jacob Arends wanted me to tell you that he will have that cot with the bars you wanted for you tonight."

Shelagh smiled her thanks and watched the young woman walk towards her village. Kholeka's skills at handling the precocious Angela had proven to be the key to Shelagh's own success since her arrival at at Hope Mission. She sent a small prayer up for the peace of mind brought about by good childcare.

"Daddy will be happy to know that," she teased her daughter. "But I'm afraid Timothy may not be!"

"Timofee!" Angela cheered.

Shelagh glanced up at the schoolhouse door. "It's just about time for the school to let out, Angel Girl. Shall we go wait for your brother?"

At that moment, the doors opened and two rows of quiet children, smallest to tallest, streamed from the building. Ten measured and stately paces from the door, each child would let out a whoop and ran home. The oldest of the children, Timothy was the last to leave, accompanied by Utitshala.

The elderly teacher called to Shelagh, "Mrs. Turner! Your Timothy is soon to learn all that I know. Today he explained to me the role of human psychology in the treatment of medical illnesses."

Shelagh laughed. "Careful, Utishala. He may try to use that psychology business to get out of his maths homework!"

A low rumble rose from the road, and they all turned their heads to the gate.

"Ah-hah! My friend Steven has returned!" the old man came down the last of the steps and moved to greet the new arrivals.

The gears ground loudly as the truck came to a stop. A young man, a year or two older than Timothy, climbed down from the truck and grabbed a small satchel. His face was lit by a wide grin as he greeted his teacher.

"Utitshala! I passed!"

The driver of the truck joined them. "He did more than pass. The judges were so impressed by his speech they assured me he'll get a position at the Academy."

"That is most excellent news, my young friend. You shall make your mother very proud." Utishala's eyes gleamed with his own feelings of pride and his voice shook. His chest filled with air and he straightened his spine. "You have earned this honor, Steven Obi. No man has given this to you, and no man can take your accomplishment away. Ever." With his last words, his voice became steely.

A look passed between teacher and student, and then the moment passed. "Steven, I must introduce to you our new friends from England. Mrs. Turner, whose husband has the great honor of being an old friend of Dr. Fitzsimmons, her daughter Angela, and her son Timothy. Turners, please allow me to introduce Master Steven Obi, soon to be of the Lovedale College. And also, Mr. Makepeace, of the British diplomatic corps, our friend and ally."

Timothy extended a friendly hand. "Thank goodness you've come back. We're starting derivatives in calculus and I'm completely lost!"

There was a slight pause before Steven returned the gesture. "I am happy to be back. Perhaps tomorrow we will start from the beginning? Utitshala has no head for the higher maths. I fear he has done much damage already."

Mr. Makepeace laughed. "I think perhaps you might regret introducing this pair, sir. " He turned to Shelagh. "Mrs. Turner, we're very grateful your team has come to get our clinic started. Please don't hesitate to call on me for any assistance you may need. The British consul is glad to finally have a reason to assist in this region. Since the creation of the Homelands, it's been difficult for us to intervene in any constructive way. I can promise you to act as a shield between you and the more … obdurate forces at work here."

Shelagh nodded. "Yes, we're beginning to understand what we're up against, Mr. Makepeace. Will you be staying here at the Mission? I know my husband would be pleased to make your acquaintance."

"I'll be here for the next few days, but then I'll have to move on. The SAP doesn't like when we interfere out here."

Utitshala nodded his head and turned back to Steven. "Now run off to your mother and tell her your news, my friend. Tomorrow we shall return to our study of the American, Abraham Lincoln. I will need you to bring all your wits to keep up with our new student."

Steven laughed, his natural friendliness emerging. "I shall, sir. And I must thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mr. Makepeace. All our efforts here would be for nothing if you did not come to our aid."

The two shook hands. "It's my great pleasure to be at the start of greatness, Steven. Remember me when you're at the top."

The small group watched as the young man headed down the dusty road to his home. Not tall, and of a slight build, he walked with the purpose of a leader.

Mr. Makepeace's voice broke the quiet. "There goes our best hope, Utitshala."

"Yes, indeed."


	12. Chapter 12

The final melody of a lullaby cocooned the little girl in her mother's arms, the soft notes sending her to sleep. Her chest rose in a slow, deep breath that bound the two ever closer and peace filled the room.

Shelagh felt her own heart rate slow, her blood pressure calm, and she knew contentment for the first time all day. She grazed her fingertip across the soft, rounded cheek of her daughter and pushed back a lock of damp hair. Angela would likely wake with a tangle of curls in the morning, but the bath had helped settle the fractious child. The late hours and time away from her mother had made Angela fussy these last few nights, and the shortage of family time and space had not helped. The routine that kept the family balanced had disappeared, and the strain was starting to show.

A twinge of resentment flickered and took hold. Each night since their arrival, she had been the one to stay with Angela, while her husband and son gathered with the others at the Mission house. She had never desired a life of social gatherings, but the intimate hours spent with her family were so very important. Quiet conversations about ordinary life, discussions about medical questions, even silent time together bound her to her family, and she felt the lack sorely. Would she always be the one to make these small sacrifices? With little help, she had tried to make a home from two small dormitory rooms. Both Patrick and Timothy seemed more interested in the world beyond this space, and neither spent much time there anyway.

It had been her idea, hadn't it? Patrick had been more than willing to let the issue drop when Dr. Fitzsimmons' letter arrived last December. It was Shelagh that pursued the possibility, her plan that made it possible, her efforts that made the trip a reality, and for what? Patrick seemed no more confident in his abilities than before they left Poplar, Angela spent most of her days in the care of others, and Shelagh found herself more of a clerk than ever before.

She felt her forehead contract in tension, and a new worry crossed her mind. When would those lines become permanent? She wasn't a vain woman, but of late she had noticed some changes. Fewer people expressed surprise that she could possibly be old enough to be the mother of a maturing boy. Were others starting to notice as well?

Angela sighed and buried her head deeper into her mother's neck. Her lips moved as if she were trying to finish a conversation, lifted in a quick smile and then stilled. The effect was comical, and Shelagh giggled. "Mummy's being silly, sweetheart. It's just a few more weeks. And who knows what tomorrow will bring?"

The wooden chair Patrick had brought over for her from the Mission house creaked as she stood and transferred Angela to her cot. The little girl settled in, turning to her tummy and her pink cotton-covered bottom in the air. Shelagh's lips pressed together in a smile as she ran her hand along Angela's back and felt calm return. She moved about the room, putting clothes in their place and folded back the cover to Timothy's bed. She dimmed the oil lamp and closed the door gently behind her.

Though it was early yet, she wouldn't join them others. Angela could still find a way out of the cot. Reluctant to retire, Shelagh made her way out to the veranda.

The air was heavy with humidity, a harbinger of the storm they had been promised would give a reprieve from the heat. A vervet monkey coughed its last cry of the night as the hum of insects rose in the trees. Soon, the rain would pour down on the metal roof of the dormitory, as loud as any train in Poplar, and Shelagh wondered how she ever could have thought of this place as quiet.

A laugh carried across the courtyard, and she craned her neck to better see the mission house. Through the large double window, she could see the nurses, Tom and Fred playing cards. Timothy sat under the brightest lamp revising, determined to return to Poplar more than prepared for his exams in the spring. He thoughtfully chewed on the end of his pencil, a certain sign that the books before him were maths.

The nuns had long retired for the night. The regular schedule of offices had been firmly maintained, and the Great Silence observed strictly as well. Though she could not see them, she knew Patrick and Dr. Fitzsimmons would be in the hospital offices, struggling to find ways to extend outreach into the community.

Night time calls were infrequent at Hope Mission. Bicycles did not travel well on the rutted roads of the territory, and horses were too much of an attraction for the local nocturnal predators. Petro was hard to come by as well, so the untrustworthy Range Rover was only called out for the most dire of emergencies.

None of that seemed to be true source for their evening doldrums. The poor attendance at the clinics gave proof to that. After years of service and dedication Myra Fitzsimmons and her staff had secured the trust of the community, and were considered distinct from the oppressive government. The interlopers from England had not earned that same faith.

Shelagh took a seat on the bench and let her mind clear of all but that one fact. Until the people of Hope Mission accepted them, this trip could not find success. Change would not come from the medical supplies they had brought, or the convenience of the clinic hours. The people they were trying to help had good reason to distrust them. In Poplar, Shelagh well knew the distrust many had of British society, and by association, the National Health. She also knew that the surest way to tear down the walls of built by distrust was to dismantle them one brick at a time.

The slam of the Mission house door surprised her, and she turned to see Patrick approach her. She warmed at the sight of him, his linen jacket tossed over his shoulder, his white shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled up to his elbows. Even in his weary state, he still radiated an attraction she felt difficult to ignore.

"Angela asleep?" he asked quietly. His footsteps rasped on the sandy steps and he came to a stop on the steps below her.

Shelagh nodded. "She took some time to settle. Poor Piglet was entirely surrounded by water three times tonight, I fear." She reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes. "You look tired, dearest. Making an early night of it?"

He settled on the bench next to her. "I had hoped to spend some time with my girls. It's been ages since we've had a nice cuddle, the three of us."

Shelagh smiled and took his hand in hers. His words slipped behind her earlier anxieties. "It's been _eleventy_ ages, as Piglet would say. We'll have time when we go back to Poplar, Patrick. There's work to be done."

He grunted. "There's always work to be done, but none of it's doing any good. Not any real, lasting good, anyway."

"Patrick, you know that's not true. It takes time to build trust."

His chest rose in a smothered sigh. "It does. I can't say as I blame them, if I'm honest. If you could see the people when we approach their farms, Shelagh, it's devastating. I know I can help them, but they won't let me." He sighed and looked down at their clasped hands. "Myra and I have decided I'm best used here at the hospital. The patients here have little chance to be choosey, certainly." He turned his head to stare into the darkness of the trees.

"Patrick," her voice was consoling, "it has nothing to do with you as a doctor or as a man, you know that. Men like DuPlessis have done such harm, they wield hatred and bigotry like weapons. We've got to find a way to make the people trust us."

He turned back and smiled crookedly. "From your lips to their ears."

"You're not going to talk about lips, are you?" Timothy's voice interrupted. He carried his books over his shoulder much the way his father held his jacket. "I think I've suffered enough. I've just spent the last hour listening to Fred teach everyone how to play poker. Nurse Crane beat him every time, though I'm fairly certain she's a ringer."

"A ringer?" Patrick asked, surprised.

"Yes, it's someone who pretends-"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know what a ringer is, Timothy. I did spend five years in the Army. Though I suppose if you're going to spend the evenings with Fred, I shouldn't be surprised at some of your vocabulary."

The mood on the veranda became light-hearted, and Shelagh wondered how much the boy had overheard. The years of sadness had made their mark on Timothy, and he was quick to soften its edges.

"Any success with your Latin tonight?" she asked.

"Nearly finished. I want to concentrate most of my time on learning Xhosa. Steven's said he'll bring me to his family's homestead, if you agree."

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged glances, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. "Of course, dear. They live several miles away, don't they?"

"Nearly three. Steven runs to and from school every day," Timothy boasted.

Patrick squinted. "In this heat? It's been over ninety degrees everyday this week!"

"Stephen says you get used to it." He shifted his books and climbed the remaining steps. "I'll go to bed now. I was going to read for a bit, is that alright, Mum?"

"Yes, dear, not too late." She offered her cheek for a kiss. "Angela should sleep through, but call me if you have any problems."

The screened door creaked as it closed behind him. "Maybe whenever we want Tim to do something unpleasant, we should have Steven ask him." Patrick commented dryly. He stood and held out his hand. "Come on, then. Lights out for us, soon as well."

Their room still had a temporary feel to it. The hard edges of the wardrobe and steel bed made it seem even more austere than her old cell in Nonnatus, Shelagh thought as Patrick closed the door behind them. The only softening was the airy mosquito netting draped over the bed. She sat at the only chair in the room and began to take down her hair.

Patrick stepped over to the wardrobe and hung his jacket up, then stretched and let out a groan. He tugged at his necktie and pulled the length of silk from around his neck. His waistcoat followed, placed neatly on the top shelf. Shelagh knew his housekeeping skills had been exhausted, and watched as he parted the netting to make a space to sit. The springs creaked noisily as he sat to remove his shoes, and he grimaced at the sound.

"This heat is oppressive," he complained. His shoes thunked as they hit the floor.

Shelagh stood. "Don't forget to put your socks back in your shoes or you'll have a nasty surprise in the morning," she advised, and turned her back to him. "Zipper, please."

He tugged the pull down and asked, "How do you manage to look as cool as a cucumber?"

As he spoke, the air pressure changed and a cool breeze pushed through the room. Shelagh faced him and answered, "I can be patient, dearest. The rain is coming."

His hands came to rest on her hips and his brow furrowed in frustration. "Well, I can't. First we had to share a room with Angela, and now this bloody squeaky bed. We never get any privacy."

She reached behind him and folded the netting away further. "Listen, Patrick."

In the distance, they could hear a wall of rain like an approaching drumline. In moments, the downpour arrived, its steady pounding on the metal roof creating a cocoon of white noise.

"It's raining, Patrick," Shelagh leaned in to whisper. Her nose brushed against the nape of his neck.

His forehead crinkled in response. "Yes, my love. I can hear it."

"Patrick, you don't understand. The rain is so _very_ loud." She hooked her thumbs at the top of his braces and pulled them from his shoulders.

His laugh was cut short by her lips pressing against his. He fell back on the bed, pulling her down with him and let the netting close around them.


	13. Chapter 13

By morning, the relief brought by the rainstorm evaporated with the rising heat. Puddles shrank quickly, and mists of steam swirled from the canvas of the mess tent. The provisional shelter provided enough space for a jumble of rough-hewn tables and hodgepodge of chairs, and like the table at Nonnatus, became the center of the community.

"I do enjoy having our meals al fresco," Sister Winifred chirped as she settled in at the long table. "The fresh air, the sun, it really is quite lovely. It's just too bad we can't do this at Nonnatus House."

"With our London fog, it might not be so pleasant, I'm afraid," Sister Julienne commented in her wry voice. "We'd never have crisp toast!"

"We don't get crisp toast here," muttered Fred, as he wiped his already damp brow. "And what I wouldn't give for a nice rasher…" He stirred the bowl before him with a pained expression.

"I know what you mean, Fred. A full English might be the thing I miss the most about home." Scooting behind chairs, Patrick slid a bowl of mieliepap, a South African corn mash, in front of Angela as Shelagh sliced her a piece of melon. She looked up in gratitude, and he squeezed his wife's shoulder before taking the seat next to her.

"Angela, please sit still at the table. You tumble from your perch, angel girl," Shelagh warned in a gentle voice. The upturned wooden box strapped to Angela's chair raised the child to table height and allowed her to feed herself, both a help and a hindrance. A large smock made from one of Patrick's old shirts helped keep laundry at a minimum, and Shelagh considered it her most clever "invention of motherhood" yet.

"Dr. Turner," Dr. Fitzsimmons low voice came from the end of the table, "I'd like to spend the morning reviewing the hospital schedule with you. If you're going to be spending most of your time here, I'd like you to take over the training of the staff."

Patrick glanced up from his tea cup, his eyes flickering to his wife. "I think you'll find the nurses know more about the day-to-day management of the floor than I do, Doctor."

"Yes, of course. Mrs. Turner has been very helpful organizing a new file system for us. Hopefully, our lack of traditional office supplies won't make it superfluous to our situation."

There was an awkward silence, and then Shelagh answered, "We did consider that, Dr. Fitzsimmons. I believe you'll find this system minimizes much of the paperwork for that very reason."

"Nurse Turner's been quite clever about it, really. By using cards rather than full sheets of paper, there's very little waste," Trixie was quick to interrupt. "And we've always found that an efficient system of patient notes provides us with the chance to put more of our energies into patient care."

"I'm sure," Dr. Fitzsimmons voice dismissed the subject. "The operating room, however, will need the expertise of a medical doctor, as I'm sure you'll all agree. After breakfast, Dr. Turner, we shall need to discuss how we can incorporate the changes we've been discussing."

"Of course," Patrick nodded. "We're all here to help."

Anxious to break the tension, Barbara announced, "Looks like Angela's made a friend."

Heads turned to see the little girl hand a piece of melon to a small vervet monkey. She giggled and reached for more fruit from her bowl.

"Angela Julienne, no!" Shelagh stood. "Shoo, Biscuit! Shoo!"

The monkey calmly looked up at the small woman and continued to savor his ill-gotten gains. Patrick stood and took the melon from his daughter's hand. "No, Angela, this is for people. We do not feed wild animals at the table."

Irritated, the monkey sauntered away. Angela let out a wail of frustration, great tears welling up in her eyes. "Dadda, Bizkit come back! Pease, Dadda? Bizkit come back." Her arms reached up for comfort, and Patrick, never one to resist, lifted her up into his arms. He glanced down at Shelagh. Twin creases of worry formed between her brows, and she pressed her lips together tightly.

"Biscuit seems a very brave little monkey, to come so close to humans," Sister Julienne noted, diplomatically steering the conversation.

"They're little thieves, vervets. It won't do to encourage the animals, Mrs. Turner. Once he thinks it's acceptable to approach the table, he'll be in the kitchens in no time." Clearly, Myra Fitzsimmons had an opinion about animals near the table.

Two pink spots appeared on Shelagh's cheeks. "Of course not, Doctor. It won't happen again."

Angela was in full throttle by now, and Patrick soothed, "Shhh, sweet girl, Biscuit only went up to his tree. See? Up in his perch." The little girl lifted her head, her face blotchy and wet. "See there? Biscuit's watching you right now, but a monkey's place is in the tree, not at the table with people, sweetheart." He tapped his daughter's nose. "Come sit with me, Angela. Daddy needs his tea after facing the fierce beast."

Angela giggled, her tears drying as quickly as they appeared. "Bizkit watching, Mama," she sagely informed her mother. She reached out for a fresh piece of fruit and settled into Patrick's lap more comfortably.

"Yes, dearest. Biscuit can watch from the tree, but no more Biscuit at the table." For a moment the frustration and embarrassment that came of parenting with an audience dissolved and she pressed a kiss to the child's sticky hand.

A sudden shout came from the front yard, followed by the sound of feet pounding on the hard earth. "Doctor, Doctor, you must come!" A tall thin man ran around the front of the building and came to a halt before the tent. He gasped, "It is time-Themba's time has come!"

Dr. Fitzsimmons stood abruptly, her face tight. "Umakhulu sent you? When did it begin?"

"At the daybreak. Come doctor, you must help her!" His desperate eyes took no notice of the crowd of strangers staring at him.

Dr. Fitzsimmons turned to Patrick and rattled off the vitals. " _Prima gravida_ , not quite full-term. It's a little early, and the family has a history of breech births. Themba's lost one child already, and her own mother died in childbirth when she was born."

"Will you try to turn the baby?" Patrick asked. He rose and handed Angela to his wife.

"I've not had success with turning a fetus, I'm afraid. Midwifery is not my strength, Patrick. It's rare for the women to turn to me for assistance; they prefer to keep it within the family. Her grandmother must be very worried to send for me. I'll need you to assist me. Jacob, bring the rover up front, please."

"With all due respect, Dr. Fitzsimmons," Nurse Crane interrupted, "but perhaps this task might be better suited to a midwife." Her polite words did little to mask the conviction of her tone.

"I agree," Sister Julienne added. "We must consider as well that it's not likely a man would be welcomed into the birthing room here, especially a white stranger."

Trixie added her voice to the chorus. "Shelagh should go. An early baby is bound to be small, and if it is a breech, there's none better than her to turn him. When we delivered the Meg Carter's twins, Sister Bernadette was a marvel, remember Doctor Turner?"

A small smile lifted his mouth at one side. "I remember."

"I'm sure Mrs. Turner is quite capable. But a caesarean section will be the best option. We'll drive out and bring Thembe back here to the hospital."

Shelagh stood, all her former discomfort gone. "Forgive me doctor, but a caesarean section will have a far greater risk. There's not enough blood supply, and the chance of sepsis is too high. More importantly, there may not be time. I can turn the baby and keep him in the proper position until he's safely in the birth canal. Patrick-"

A look passed between the two, and Patrick nodded. "Go."


	14. Chapter 14

The Behle clan occupied a large homestead of several rondavels, circular stucco buildings covered by thick thatch roofs. Surrounded by a thorn bush fence, the kraal enclosed the umzi and offered protection for the cattle. Much like the brick work and courtyards of Poplar, the kraal created a protected world.

As the old rover rumbled up to the gate, a young girl ran from her place guarding the cattle to let them in. She shouted words in Xhosa to the doctor, then returned to her post. Ibo, Thembe's husband, jumped from the vehicle before it came to a halt, but was stopped before he could enter the main house.

An older woman stood in the doorway. She wore the intricate headdress and beadwork of the first wife, a position that had no greater power than at this moment. The young man tried to push past her to see his wife and was rebuffed. Sister Julienne had been right: Patrick Turner would not have been welcome.

Fitzsimmons turned to Shelagh. "The Xhosa are strong-minded people, Mrs. Turner. They will not suffer British arrogance, nor will they allow you to ignore their ways. Doctor Turner has assured me that you are, in fact, Thembe's best chance, but I must tell you it's against my better judgement." She turned her face away, but not before Shelagh saw a look of anxiety. "I haven't delivered a baby in far too long. The chances of this ending badly are extremely high."

Shelagh took in a breath and held it for a long moment. "I can do this, Doctor, and so can you. Between us, we will deliver this baby."

"I hope to God you're right." With a shrug of her shoulders, Myra Fitzsimmons erased all sign of fear from her face and stepped from the car.

Despite her confident words, Shelagh felt her earlier boldness begin to wane. As she followed Doctor Fitzsimmons into the dimly lit home, she struggled to clear her mind of fear.

Umakhulu greeted them as they arrived at the rondavel's entrance, and seemed to immediately accept Shelagh's presence. Rare as it was for the villagers to call on Doctor Fitzsimmons for the sacred rite of childbirth, it was clear the old woman was willing to sacrifice her own pride for her granddaughter.

As she listened to the two women speak, Shelagh glanced about the room. The floor was hard-packed earth, and several small windows clustered high on the southern curve, their light bouncing along the bright white interior walls. Beds edged the rondavel, and a square table dominated the center. Shelagh quickly absorbed her surroundings, trying to acclimate herself.

A low sound came from a bed at the far end of the room, and she turned to their patient. Thembe was far thinner than she should be despite her swollen belly. The young woman lay on her side, her body twisted with pain. Shelagh took in another slow, deep breath as she sent up a prayer for courage and she knelt at the young woman's side.

" _Umhlobo_ ," she said gently as she pressed her hand to her heart. " _Nceda._ "

The woman's forehead glistened and her eyes were glazed with pain. " _Umhlobo?_ " Thembe whispered. Shelagh reached out and took the frightened woman's hand and nodded. Without turning her head, she said, "I've exhausted my Xhosa, I'm afraid, Doctor. You'll have to translate."

A moment passed before Doctor Fitzsimmons responded. "I think perhaps you know all that's truly necessary, Nurse." She spoke softly to Thembe, and the young woman's grip tightened on Shelagh's hand. "I've told her what you're going to do, and that it will be painful, but at the end of this long day, she'll hold her beautiful baby in her arms."

Thembe gasped as a pain contorted her face. Shelagh placed a cool hand on her forehead and watched as the contraction ran its course.

"I'll need to examine her, Doctor. The pains sound as if the labor is beginning to progress, and I don't want to miss the window where I can help. Is she ready for me?"

The old woman approached Shelagh, pointing out the bowl of water set aside to clean her hands. Her voice clicked words of support, her arms gesturing to her granddaughter. Shelagh smiled and said gently, "I can help, Umakhulu. _Nceda_."

The bowl of water looked fresh, the bar of soap next to it untouched. Shelagh made a decision, then began to scrub her hands in the cool water. She needed their trust as much as anything else. An insult to the cleanliness of their home would do as much damage as ignorance. The bottle of surgical spirits in her bag would help disinfect her hands.

Her soft voice filled the room as she spoke, her small hands expertly manipulating the tense muscles of the frightened woman's abdomen. Her eyes kept a close watch on Thembe's face, noting the fear that never left the young woman's mind. "Tell her I've done this many times before," she told Fitzsimmons. "Tell her I can feel her baby moving inside her."

As Fitzsimmons spoke, Shelagh moved lower. She paused and asked Thembe for permission. "I'll have to examine the birth canal, Thembe. This will feel a wee bit uncomfortable, but I'll be as quick as I can." She waited for her request to be translated, then moved when she saw Thembe nod.

Her hands moved swiftly as she visualized the path the baby was taking. Keeping her face impassive, she turned to Fitzsimmons. "The baby is most definitely breech, not quite transverse, but I'm more concerned that the head is wedged under the ribcage. I'll have to coax the baby down a bit before I can turn."

She smiled at Thembe. "Your baby isn't quite ready yet Thembe dear. Will you trust me, and let me help?" There was another pause for translation, and Thembe nodded.

"Help my girl, _umhlobo._ Please."

"So it's a girl then?" Dr. Fitzsimmons teased. Her own fear seemed to lessen as Shelagh took the situation under control.

Umakhulu laughed, relief clear in the sound. "A girl for my girl. There is little better a woman can know. You, umhlobo, do you have your girl?" She touched Shelagh's wedding ring.

"Nurse Turner has a beautiful little girl, Thembe," Myra Fitzsimmons answered. "She _will insist_ on feeding the monkey at the table, I'm afraid, but she has laughing eyes."

Shelagh turned in surprise to the doctor, but the moment was cut short by a deep contraction. "I'd best begin, Thembe. Now this will hurt, but I know you are strong."

* * *

Xhosa translations

Umakhulu: grandmother

Umhlobo: friend

Nceda: help


	15. Chapter 15

The main ward of the Mission hospital was a long and narrow room, barely wide enough for a single row of beds. The high, dark paneled ceilings and worn paint mimicked the style of the clinic hall, but despite the row of paned windows, the room felt somehow felt more cave-like than that space. Drawn blinds shielded the room from the intensity of the full noon sun as the four patients stirred restlessly in their beds.

Sister Julienne hovered over the dozing patients, stopping to scratch notes on the small chalkboards at the foot of each cot while Trixie sorted medical supplies for the third time that morning. The hospital saw even fewer patients than the weekly clinic, their charges the few villagers that had no family to care for them. Only a slow-healing stomach abscess and the lingering effects of dysentery kept them in hospital, and none needed the care the nurses had hoped to bring to the Mission.

Patrick sat at the lone desk at the head of the room as he reviewed notes. Still unused to the heat, he shifted his chair to take full advantage of the room's only fan, then glanced at his watch, impatient for something to do. Not since his days as a medical student had he been tied to one location for days on end. He preferred the constant movement about the community of his practice, the surgery and maternity hospital a gravitational center for his rounds.

Perhaps that was where things had started to go wrong, Patrick wondered. In the years since the National Health formed, he and so many other medical professionals had eagerly embraced the overconfident promises of science. The solutions seemed so much simpler. A few jabs and illnesses could be all but eradicated. If he never saw a case of polio again, it would be too soon.

Since their arrival in South Africa, he had done very little real medicine. The strange atmosphere of distrust hampered their efforts, and he, in particular, seemed to be singled out by the local population as a threat. The reasons were obvious, but he chafed at the idea that his help was not wanted. He wasn't a fool; he knew Shelagh had championed this journey in order to rekindle his love of medicine. Now it was becoming obvious her hopes would be quashed by a culture of systemic racism.

He glanced about the room and tapped his pencil impatiently against his clipboard. He wondered how far was the labor progressing. He had every faith in Shelagh's abilities, but still he worried. Any complication in childbirth was magnified tenfold, even with her skills. He wished he could be with her.

He squelched a small sense of jealousy. At least he had spent some time out in the community since their arrival. Shelagh had somehow been delegated the tasks of organizing the clinic and their crew. While he knew part of her relished in the challenge, he was also aware that Shelagh itched to make a difference out with the people they had come to help. Today was her turn to reach out.

He stood and stretched, then made his way to the window. Angela was enjoying the change of scenery, certainly. Under the watchful eye of Kholeka, she skipped about the yard, watched by a monkey-no doubt her partner in mischief from the breakfast table-chattering from the nearby tree. His eyes followed as Angela stooped to pick a small yellow bloom from the grass and called out, "Bizzzzzz-kit!" She placed the flower at the foot of the tree, then turned to tiptoe back to Kholeka's side.

The monkey's chatter stopped and his eyes darted between the small child and the flower. With slow movements, he slid out of eyesight behind the tree.

"Bizzzkittt!" the little girl called again. "Flower for you!"

Suddenly, the little vervet dashed from around the tree and snatched the flower. He sat still for a moment, then shrieked what Patrick assumed was a monkey "thank you," and returned to his sentry point. Angela laughed and began the routine again.

Patrick's lips twisted in a half grin. If they weren't careful, his daughter might find a way to hide the monkey in her suitcase.

The roar of an engine broke the idyllic scene, and Patrick glanced in the direction of the mission gates. Clouds of dust rose in the air as a battered truck entered the mission yard and rolled to a grinding stop.

By the time Patrick began to make his way down the steps, his fears of another confrontation with Sergeant DuPlessis evaporated. Henry Makepeace climbed out from behind the wheel, a warm grin on his face.

"Doctor Turner! So glad to see you!" He took the floppy khaki hat from his head and waved it in greeting. "Come see what I've brought."

Stopping to scoop Angela up in his arms, Patrick crossed the yard to the truck and peered over the side.

"I hope it's not another crate of bandages. We've had a beastly time trying to square away what we've already got." Patrick turned his head to see Nurse Franklin approach, her voice carrying the clipped tone he'd often noticed when she most wanted to be taken seriously. "What is it?" she asked.

"A hot water heater. Or it was, once upon a time. I thought perhaps between Jacob Arends and your Fred, it could be again." The young man's eyes studiously avoided the young nurse. "It was all I could do to get this old thing out here. DuPlessis has made it a sort of _raison d'etre_ to keep any and all equipment out of the homelands. He'd rather see a water heater rust away on the bin heap than let it help here."

"But why? If no one is Alice needs it, surely the Sergeant wouldn't mind if we use it in hospital." Trixie's brows knit together in consternation. "Surely he wouldn't stand in the way of our helping patients?"

Makepeace dropped his hat back on his head and opened the truck hatch. "Unfortunately, the government's policies on the homelands rather encourages men like DuPlessis to rule as they wish. As long as he keeps the peace in the white communities, no one really pays much attention to what happens out here. A water heater only means something to him because it means something to us."

"How dreadful!" Trixie murmured. "It must be so very difficult to cope. I'm sure you must be very brave and frightfully clever to outsmart him for us."

A slow flush spread over the young man's tanned cheeks. "It's not-I mean, I-" he swallowed his words, then regained his composure. "Apartheid is wrong, for all it's the law of the land. While the British government may not be willing to officially denounce it, we at the consulate can try to help in our own way." By now he was in full command, and Patrick could see why the young man had chosen the diplomatic corps as a profession. "Medical care should be free from all politics."

"Hear, hear," Patrick enjoined.

"I'm glad you agree, doctor. If you don't mind, I've got a task for you."

He placed Angela on the ground. "Go run to Kholeka, darling. Daddy has work to do."


	16. Chapter 16

Shelagh stood in the open doorway of the rondavel and watched as the new mother held her child to her breast. Umakhulu bustled about the room, putting things in order after the happy birth and Shelagh smiled. For all the strangeness of the setting, they could just as well have been in a two-up, two-down in Poplar. Family was universal, and love too, for that matter.

It had taken all her skill to turn Thembe's baby and to help keep the infant in the proper position for delivery. A titled maternal pelvis complicated the matter, and Shelagh knew in other circumstances, they would have delivered the baby by caesarean section. She sent a prayer of gratitude that in Poplar they had that option. Poor Thembe suffered greatly to deliver her daughter.

Shelagh picked up the basket of gourds Umakhulu had offered her as thanks and crossed the kraal to the truck. Myra Fitzsimmons leant against the bonnet, weariness in her posture. The end of her cigarette glowed bright red as she inhaled slowly, stress easing from her shoulders. She offered it to Shelagh as she blew smoke off to the side.

Shelagh smiled and shook her head. "No, thank you. I've given them up."

The older woman's eyebrows lifted, forming deep lines in her forehead. She took another long drag. "Patrick, too, I see. Used to smoke like a chimney in medical school."

"Yes," Shelagh nodded. "He's only just given them up this autumn. Timothy insisted." Her lips twisted in a wry smile. "One of the many complications of having such a clever boy is that it's hard to get away with anything."

"I can imagine." The two women stood in a companionable silence as darkness settled quickly over the valley. Myra dropped the butt of her cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her foot. "We should be going. We'll be safe enough in the truck, but night is really for the beasts around here."

Their two faces glowed green in the light of the dash, all but the road before them in total darkness. Both women knew the weariness that came from attending a patient at a time of crisis. The physical labor wore down the body, and the sudden drop in adrenaline put emotions nearer the surface. Shelagh opened her medical bag and pulled out a small bar of chocolate.

"It's not a cup of tea, but it will keep us until we return to the mission," she said as she broke the bar in half.

Myra nodded her thanks. The silence grew between the two women until Myra said, "Thembe would have lost her baby if not for you."

"Pssht, no. I'm sure you could have managed, Doctor Fitzsimmons," Shelagh waved away the compliment.

"No, I couldn't. I rarely get called in for births. Childbirth is a family issue in these parts, they don't want outsiders to intervene. On the rare occasion they do come for me, it's usually too late." The older woman's eyes darted nervously as she drove on. She was not used to making such personal confessions. She searched for another topic. "Who is Sister Bernadette? Your teacher?"

For a moment, Shelagh felt the return of the anxiety she felt in those early days after she left the convent. A long time had passed since she had to explain her past. As she spoke, however, she felt the nervousness pass. " _I_ was Sister Bernadette. I was a member of the Order of St Raymond Nonnatus before I married Patrick."

Her words were met by a long silence, and then Myra responded, "Well, then. Patrick told me not to underestimate you."

Shelagh felt herself warm to those words. She knew Patrick loved her and respected her work, but to know he had spoken of her in such terms reminded her how lucky she was to be so well-respected by her husband.

"So you were a nun before, were you?" Myra gave a low, throaty laugh, then sobered. "I've been on my own a long time, Shelagh. Oh, I have companions, my nurses and staff, but they're somehow separate from me. I've grown a bit solitary; I chose a path different from most women, and I forget that my way is not the only way. I'm starting to see, watching you Nonnatuns, that women can and should be able to choose different paths."

A low pounding sound rumbled up through the car, and Myra slowed the car. "Close your window all the way. The babies have a way of reaching in to try to steal food."

The next moment, the beams of the headlights caught the outline of a high, rounded back, then a large ear and finally the curve of an elephant's long trunk. Shelagh's breath caught.

Myra assured her, "It should be just fine, they're fairly used to us. As long as we idle here and let them pass, they won't bother us."

The elephants seemed content to take their time as they crossed the road, one or two taking a moment to shift their enormous skulls to better observe the strange metal creature in their path. Shelagh could feel her heart pounding in her chest as the largest turned back towards them.

"It's all right," Myra whispered. "Don't be alarmed. She's just checking on the children in the back. As long as the babies are safe, she'll ignore us."

"She?"

"Yes. Except for breeding times, elephant herds are exclusively females and children. The bulls are much more solitary, and far more dangerous. All that pachyderm testosterone," Myra joked.

The littlest elephant appeared, and the matron made a scolding noise and wrapped her long trunk around his head. She gave him a gentle tug, and the baby joined the herd as they disappeared into the trees.

"My, but I've seem the most amazing things here!" Shelagh murmured.

"Drop any one of us in Poplar, and we'd feel the same way staring up at a double-decker!" Myra put the truck back in gear and resumed the trip home.


	17. Chapter 17

"Oh, Christ," Myra Fitzsimmons muttered through her teeth. She adjusted the rearview mirror and peered down the valley. "We've got company. Hang on, Mrs. Turner." She shifted the gears and revved the engine, pushing the old truck to a higher speed. She kept one hand on the horn and blared it as they drove the last half mile to the Mission.

Shelagh turned to look behind them and saw several sets of headlights in the distance.

"Night-time visits are never a good thing," Myra told her through the blasts of the horn. "When people hear the horn, they'll know trouble is coming. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!"

A crowd had already formed outside the Mission when they pulled in minutes later. Patrick ran to the truck, fear plain on his face.

"Shelagh, are you alright?"

She grasped his hand and felt safer for its squeeze. "Yes, mother and baby are safe and sound. But I'm afraid trouble's following us."

Myra's voice rose through the yard. "There are at least three vehicles headed this way. I don't know if it's DuPlessis or not, but we must prepare. Jacob Arend-"

"Yes, Doctor. We are secure."

"Good. Sister Julienne, we must be sure the medical supplies are safe and will not be found. Please take some of your nurses and assist Nurse Akani with the hospital. She will know what to do. Kholeka, run to your parents and tell them to sound the alarm. There was a meeting tonight, and DuPlessis will use any excuse to take the men. And Mr. Makepeace, I'm afraid we'll need all your skills tonight."

Henry Makepeace came forward. "I was afraid this might happen. Doctor Turner and I removed the working parts when I arrived this afternoon, and we've hidden them. Fred will be able to reassemble them in another container after they've gone."

A small wail came from the steps of the dormitory as Timothy approached the group, his sister in his arms. "Mummy!" Angela cried.

"Sorry, Mum." Timothy began.

Shelagh took the young girl in her arms. "There, there, angel girl, Mummy's here." She pressed a kiss to the girl's sleep-pinkened cheeks and pushed the damp locks from her daughter's eyes. "Stay with Mummy, but you'll need to be as quiet as a mouse." Angela buried her face into her mother's shoulder.

Patrick nodded once to his son. Timothy could not be expected to stay in the room like a child. He would want to help.

The snarl of the engines filled the air. "Follow my lead, everyone," Doctor Fitzsimmons called. "And remember, he is not our friend. He knows you do not understand the way things are done here and will do his damndest to trick you." She moved forward to intercept the visitors.

The Rover appeared abruptly, and the sergeant stepping from the vehicle before it came to a complete stop. Four of his men climbed out from the vehicles and stood at attention, their hands ready on their weapons in a clear show of dominance.

"Myra, my dear, I'm flattered you all gathered to greet me," the tall man's voice kept cadence with his boot heels as they clipped sharply at the ground. "Unless of course, there's been some sort of gathering I should be made aware of? But, no, I'm certain you all learned your lesson the last time." He scowled as he mentally took attendance of the group.

The mission doctor held her ground. "I'm sure there's no need for you to come rushing out here, Sergeant. You can see it is only our guests 've just returned from a birth. You agreed that medical visits would not be affected by your curfew."

"Another k****r," DuPlessis sneered. "It hardly seems worth the effort."

The tall man turned from her and walked toward the small group. "Mr. Makepeace," he called. "It's too bad you...forgot...to check with me before you made this long trip. If you had done so, you would have known that we find we have great need of the water heater you appropriated from our supplies." His eyes passed over Trixie in that same insolent fashion he had shown at their introduction. "Although I can understand your keenness to return to Hope Mission, and perhaps even forgive just a little bit your _natural desire_ to impress our new friends."

Trixie stiffened and was about to retort when Makepeace interrupted. "Of course you know I meant no disrespect, Sergeant. I was assured by your own office that the water heater was of no use to you."

"But you did not go through the proper channels. You _English_ ," he sneered. "You think you know how to run our country, yet you have no understanding, no respect for the struggles we must face to protect our world. These k****rs will try to cheat you, they will try to kill you in your beds. Fools, the whole lot of you."

He turned and shouted to his men in Afrikaans and they laughed in response.

"I hope you do not think me rude, but I am afraid I must insist you return the water heater immediately."

"The hospital needs a water heater, Sergeant." Doctor Fitzsimmons kept her eyes away from his sight. "We are a mission of God. Surely you see the need-"

"I am tired of this disregard for my authority, doctor. You have your British patrons, ask them. Do not waste the precious resources I must use for true Afrikaners. You can have the water heater returned to me immediately, or perhaps my men and I will find it necessary to stay here for a few days to help you find it?" The sergeant's voice had regained its smoothness. "With so many pretty nurses here, I'm sure we would find the time quite pleasant."

Myra Fitzsimmons shrugged her shoulders in defeat. "Jacob Arends, please return the water heater to Sergeant DuPlessis."

They watched in silence as the rusted water heater was hefted onto the truck flatbed and the police officers piled back into their vehicles.

Before leaving, DuPlessis turned one last time to face them. "It's a shame we had to make this trip out here. I thought we understood each other, Makepeace, but it appears my trust in you was misplaced."

He swung himself into the front seat of the Rover, his paw-like hands gripping the open window. "Do not test me. I expect all of our laws to be honored."

The small team of medics watched in silence as the lights of the convoy disappeared down the road.


	18. Chapter 18

Shelagh could feel the fog of exhaustion drift back as she slowly woke. There was a sound she recognized tapping in her head, a sound she couldn't ignore, and the last mists of sleep evaporated. She sat up, confused, and pushed her hair from her face.

A gentle tap at the door set her to action. In the bright moonlit room, she reached for her nightgown and slipped it over her head. She moved from the warm bed and shimmied the fabric down the length of her body, and frowned at the complicated garment. It was pretty, but it was a bit ridiculous.

"Mum?" she heard Timothy's voice come through the crack of the door.

"Coming," she whispered back. She padded in her bare feet across the room and opened the door.

Timothy stood before her, holding his small sister by the hand. In the dim light he was all angles, and even without her glasses Shelagh could see the boy was asleep on his feet. A sniffle from somewhere around the level of his knee drew her attention.

"There, there," Shelagh crooned, kneeling before her teary daughter. She pushed Angela's tangled hair back from her damp cheeks. "Did my little monkey have trouble sleeping?"

"I tried to settle her, but she only wanted you. Sorry, Mum, I know you must be tired after today." Tim's newly deepening voice rumbled in a way that recalled his father's.

Shelagh wrapped her arms around Angela, then stood. "That's alright, Timothy. I've got her now. You go back to sleep."

He accepted her kiss, then turned back to his own room.

Shelagh closed the door and carried Angela over to the small desk in the corner. Deftly, she poured a small drink of water and watched as the little girl noisily gulped it down. She hoped she wouldn't regret this break from the "no drinks after bedtime" rule before morning.

Angela finished her water, and handed back the glass with a satisfied "Aaah!"

Shelagh giggled. "Whisper voice, sweetheart! Everyone's sleeping." She glanced over at her husband, who was, in fact, sound asleep. Shelagh rolled her eyes. She envied his ability to sleep through so much. Only the ring of the phone could stir him once he was asleep, an odd trait that had enabled him to miss many night-time child visits and feedings. She hated to wake him, but she would have to.

"Patrick," her voice rose ever so slightly. She squeezed his foot through the bedcovers. "Patrick, I need you to wake up for a moment."

He woke suddenly, upright in an instant.

"It's alright, dearest, no need to worry. You'll need to dress for visitors." She pushed his pyjamas through the opening in the netting.

"What's wrong?' he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Angela's been upset. I'll bring her to the lav, you get dressed. We'll be back in a jiffy." The door closed behind her, her husband's grunts of mild disapproval making her smile.

When they returned a few minutes later, a pyjama-clad Patrick had the bed straightened and the pillows set for the new sleeping arrangement.

"I suppose it was a rough day for everyone," he agreed. He lifted the girl into his arms. Angela's head nuzzled in the crook of his neck, then popped up. "Bizkit's a monkey, Daddy," she whispered.

"Yes, Biscuit's a _sleeping_ monkey, Angela. If we bring you into bed with us, will you sleep too?"

The blonde head tucked itself back in place. "S'eeping now, Daddy." She pretended to snore.

They slipped into well-rehearsed positions, and in moments, Angela had fulfilled her promise.

"It doesn't seem quite fair how she can do that," Patrick whispered through a yawn. "Tell me about the delivery."

Shelagh curved her body around Angela and slipped her toes under his calves to warm. Worry over the unexpected visit from DuPlessis and his men shifted attention away from Shelagh's first call off the mission grounds, and they had yet to discuss it.

"The baby needed quite a bit of convincing, but we finally turned her right. Poor Thembe must have been in such terrible pain. You know, Patrick, they used the same tricks so many of our mothers in Poplar use to keep from making too much noise. It's quite funny how similar the fundamentals are, when you think about it. Thousands of miles apart, and yet we're all still the same."

"I thought that during the war; no matter where a soldier was from, he always had the same requests. Send love to his girl, ask his father to be proud. Here too, I suppose." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was pained.

"How did you get her to trust you, Shelagh?"

Shelagh chose her words carefully. This wasn't a tender ego talking. Trust was integral to a doctor's practice. Without it, Patrick could not help anyone, including himself.

"It was Umakhulu-the grandmother. The thought of losing her girl was impossible, and they were just desperate enough to give me a try. But there was something else, Patrick. Myra told them I was a mother, too; that I had a little girl of my own. It made me a little less strange, somehow, and they let their fear of me go."

Patrick sighed heavily as he considered her words. After a moment he turned to his side to face her and brushed his hand lightly along the curve of her hip. "You should sleep, my love. We can talk in the morning."

She nodded as weariness began to overtake her. "We'll find a way, Patrick. I know we will."

As the night slipped into silence, an idea began to form.


	19. Chapter 19

"I would have thought, Mrs. Turner, that without the hustle and bustle of Poplar your husband would have an easier time of it arriving at clinic on time." Phyllis Crane impatiently folded her glasses and slipped them into her pocket.

"It's not as if there's a terrible crush of patients, is there?" Barbara piped in. "I'm sure Doctor Turner will be along any time now." In the weeks since their arrival in South Africa, Barbara's spine had stiffened, particularly around Nurse Crane. No one was sure if it was meant to impress the formidable older woman, or to spite her.

"Doctor Turner wanted to speak with Timothy's teacher this morning. He'll be along shortly." Shelagh held back a sigh and turned back to organizing the vaccines it seemed they wouldn't be administering yet again. The warm sense of accomplishment brought back from Thembe's delivery had all but faded as yet another clinic was ignored by the community.

"How is Timothy finding school here," Sister Julienne asked in the bored silence.

"Oh, you know Timothy," Shelagh rallied. He thinks the world of Utitshala, and he's made a very firm friend in Steven. I know it was an imposition on all of you to bring the children along, but it's been so very educational for Timothy."

"The broader the minds of our youth, the better we will all be," Nurse Crane interjected. "The world is changing quicker than we grown-ups can keep up. It'll be up to them to blaze the trails!"

"Indeed, Nurse Crane," Sister Julienne responded quietly. Her eyes travelled around the small group. "One can only hope that like Timothy, they will work hard to understand the new without rejecting all of the old ways, as well."

"I, for one, am grateful the children came along, Shelagh. Angela and her monkey friend have become quite a source of entertainment for us all!" Trixie flounced over to the intake table next to Barbara. "I hardly even miss the Coronation Street."

Barbara sparked up. "You should come out with me this afternoon, Trixie. Tom is working with Fred and Jacob Arends to plot out the pipeline from the new well, and I thought I would bring them a bit of a tea. You know, to keep their spirits up."

As Trixie made to cry off, Barbara added. "I think Tom mentioned Mr. Makepeace might be coming out to help read the plans."

Suddenly fascinated by the pile of empty patient cards in front of her, Trixie's voice was cool. "I suppose I could. It might give me a chance to take one of the horses out for a ride. I'm feeling a bit restless, I must admit."

"I think we all are, if we're quite honest," Nurse Crane admitted. "We haven't made much of an impact in the weeks since we've arrived."

"I think we may have been going about it all wrong, Nurse Crane." All heads turned as Patrick swanned in through the double doors that opened onto the yard. "We've been expecting the community to come to us because it's the most efficient use of time and services. We thought they would accept our way of doing things, when it's really quite foreign to them." He approached his wife's table. "You were right, Shelagh. They have good reason to be wary of strangers, especially white strangers. Very little good has come from Colonials, so, of course they've turned inward, even at the expense of their own health.

He paused and looked about the clinic. "We have to earn their trust. When we first arrived, I didn't think it was possible, especially after we met Sergeant DuPlessis and saw what sort of authority we were dealing with, but Shelagh's midwife call yesterday has given me hope. If we can make some sort of connection, build a sort of bridge between us, then perhaps we can prove to the community that we really are here to help."

"But how, Doctor? We've gone out into their homes, we've explained how a clinic here at the Mission will help everyone. We can't make them trust us." Sister Julienne's voice betrayed her discouragement.

"No, we can't, Sister. What we can do is show them who we are as people. Shelagh, when did you feel you had gained Thembe's trust last night?"

As she looked in her husband's face, Shelagh felt her heart begin to pound. His eyes glittered with excitement and purpose. "When she knew I had a little girl waiting for me at home." She took a deep breath and told the group, "Thembe would have done whatever her grandmother told her, but when she knew I was a mother as well, she gave me her trust."

"Exactly. You made a connection with those women, Shelagh, one that showed them you were more like them than they knew. Apartheid has kept people so locked away from each other that they've forgotten that basically, we're all the same. Same hopes and fears, same loves and dreams.

"What we need to do is work at building on what Shelagh started. We need to show our own humanity. When we do, we'll finally reach them." His hand reached out and took hers. "After clinic, Timothy and I are bringing Utitshala out to the shantytown to meet with Stephen Obi's father. I think I may have a way to get Fred some help with that well, but for now, let's come up with a plan to get people to trust us."

"I think you may get an earlier start on your plan than you thought, Doctor Turner," announced Sister Winifred. "We've got company."

Ahead in the near distance, a growing number of women, children running about their feet, strolled towards the Mission hospital.

"What on earth-" Trixie exclaimed. Her face grew determined. "All right, doctor. Let's put your theory to the test!"

As the women gathered closer, the yard filled with their friendly chatter. Shelagh and Patrick exchanged a look, and after a gentle squeeze, released each other's hand to take a place by the tables.

Nurse Crane's voice rose above the rest, and in minutes, the clinic was in full swing. Nonnatuns relied on old habits and skills and soon not only were inoculations being administered, but minor ailments and childish illnesses were sorted as well.

Shelagh gazed out over the crowd. The women seemed so different in some ways to the women they were used to seeing in Poplar, their clothes lighter and rougher than the woolies so often seen in England, the shaped felt hats of the local milliner replaced by intricate headwraps, even the rhythm and tone of their language sounding the same in the large group. She smiled as she overheard Sister Winifred trying bravely to replicate the sounds necessary for her patient's name.

Myra Fitzsimmons' truck pulled in through the gates, and the medic jumped down. "I've brought you a visitor," she called over to Shelagh as she came round and opened the passenger door.

Umakhulu climbed down from the truck, then reached in to take a large bundle of cloth from her granddaughter before the doctor helped the young woman out.

"Thembe!" Shelagh cried. "You should be home resting!"

"Life in the kraal doesn't provide much chance for bedrest, Nurse Turner," Doctor Fitzsimmons noted dryly. "Thembe was prepared to walk the mile and a half to come and thank you herself. I was lucky to get her to agree to ride back with me."

Thembe reached out and grasped Shelagh's hands tightly. "Nurse Umhlobo, I owe you so much. My daughter is safe and with her family, and I must thank you."

"Oh, nonsense," Shelagh scoffed gently.

"There is no nonsense, Nurse Umhlobo," Umkhulu chided. "You have helped our family and now we must help you."

"Umkhulu is the reason why these women have all come to our clinic," Myra explained. "It's no small thing that she used her influence to convince them we can help. She's the single best hope we have to make this clinic a success."

A warm glow of pride shown in Shelagh's face. "Thank you for letting me into your home, Thembe. Here," she coaxed as she placed her arm about the young woman's shoulders. "Let's get you sat down and we can have the doctor take a good look at this beauty."


	20. Chapter 20

Plumes of dust followed the truck as it crossed the wide savannah, a barren landscape quite different from the trees and green bushes that surrounded the Mission. In the heat of the early afternoon, there were few animals visible. Only a lonely black-winged kite soaring in lazy circles gave proof to life on the plain.

"I thought you said Steven lived three miles away?" Patrick squinted, his forehead furrowed despite the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing outside. He shifted gears awkwardly with his right hand, grimacing at the grinding sound.

"It is three miles on foot, Doctor," Utitshala informed them, "but to travel by car, it is much longer."

"That makes no sense, whatsoever." With each minute, Patrick's confidence was starting to fade and with it, his patience.

"The settlement Steven lives in isn't at all like the rondavels we've seen near the mission, Dad. Steven says-"

"I know, Tim. I did the same research you did before we arrived." As soon as the sharp words flew out of his mouth, Patrick shook his head in regret.

"I do not think "sense" was the primary motivation in building this road." Utitshala waved his hand towards the plain. "This road was created when the government began the relocation to the Bantustans. Out here, so far from the cities, we have very few roads, as you know. There is the road into the village where our Mission is situated, and then we have this one. The roads converge far to the North, making a direct route between the settlement and Alice. Do you understand why that is?" As he asked Timothy the question, Utitshala's old eyes clouded over with emotion and he looked away to the tan landscape.

"I'm not sure, sir. It seems as if the road is meant to make travel _more_ difficult, not less."

The old teacher's silence compelled Patrick to reconsider his own tone. After a moment, he began to speak.

"It was to keep the people apart, Tim. The government wanted to isolate the people they were transferring to the homelands. They took advantage of the differences between the tribes and used it to defuse any possible alliances.

"The Xhosa farmers that were already here had their village, they had an entire history here. The Homeland Act didn't require them to leave, but thousands of others were forced from their homes and their livelihoods and pushed out here on land no one else wanted. These people are poor in ways we've never seen, Tim. They have so little power in their own imagine that happened to you. How would you feel?"

"I'd be furious." Tim's righteous heart shone out of his eyes.

"Precisely. The last thing the government wants is one angry group to start talking with the others."

Tim considered his father's words. "So that explains why so few of the children Steven knows come to school."

"Yes. They are forced to stay home to help the family survive." Patrick glanced over at the old teacher. "Did I get that right, Utitshala?"

"Yes, Doctor, you are correct." Composure returned to the old man's wise face. "I am afraid the government's plan has worked, to a very large extent. Because of men like DuPlessis, we will find a great deal of suspicion and anger when we arrive. It is my hope that your father's plan will help make a change, young Timothy."

Through the ripples of heat hovering above the road, the shantytown came into view. Barely more than shacks, these homes were assembled from scrap wood and rusted corrugated tin. Few had windows, leaving families to shelter in dark, unventilated spaces.

As they drove through the settlement, suspicious faces turned to watch them, eyes full of reproach. In a small clearing, two boys faced each other with two long sticks, their arms up as if to duel. They paused for a moment before one boy called out to them.

"That's Zinwe, from school. He comes with Stephen sometimes," Tim said.

"Not often enough. I am afraid that boy could fall in with the wrong crowd if we are not careful," Utitshala answered. He waved, and the two boys turned their back on the truck to resume their game.

"You're sure I was right to bring Tim?" Patrick asked, his voice uncertain.

"Yes, Doctor. We are safe here, though I cannot promise we will be successful. Turn here."

The truck turned down an alley so narrow homes on each side could be reached from the truck windows. At the old teacher's direction, Patrick continued down a labyrinth of alleys.

"Perhaps we should have left the truck back at the start of the town and walked in," Patrick wondered aloud.

"I am afraid Doctor Fitzsimmons would have been none too pleased when we returned on foot because her beloved old truck had been stripped down to the ground, Doctor. It is better we keep close. Zakhele Obi is an important man here. No one will bother us if they know we are his guest."

Patrick downshifted as they pulled along an open lot. Men sat in makeshift chairs clustered in small groupings, some playing cards or mancala, while others loitered about with no direction _ **.**_ Every set of eyes turned toward the visitors as the climbed down from the truck. A small man stepped forward, his eyes on the teacher. He walked with a limp, but his back with straight. His hands touched his chest, moving out from his heart in greeting. "Molo, Utitshala!"

The two men clasped hands and exchanged greetings in Xhosa, their manner that of two veteran soldiers from old battles. They broke apart, and Utitshala introduced his companions to the small crowd that had gathered around them.

"Zakhele Obi, I wish to make known to you my esteemed new friend Doctor Patrick Turner, and his son, Timothy."

Shrewd eyes passed over the two visitors before Zakhele spoke. "Timothy Turner. My son Steven speaks most highly of you. He has grown complacent in his schooling of late, so I must thank you for the challenge you offer." He called out to a young boy on the edge of the clearing, issuing an order in Xhosa. The boy dropped his ball and ran off down a side alley.

"I have sent for my son. He would be most displeased if he were not here to greet you properly."

Timothy's face flushed with the attention. "Thank you, sir. I've already learnt so much from Steven during my stay."

"It is good to know the boy has done some good himself, then. And this is your father." He extended his hand for Patrick to clasp. "I am Zakhele Obi, sir."

Patrick shifted on his feet, aware of the watchful glare from several of Zakhele's companions and took the other man's hand. "Thank you for your welcome, Mr. Obi. I'm sorry to arrive unannounced, but we don't have much time here, and I was hoping to have a moment of your time."

A momentary flash of distrust in Zakhele's eyes and one of the men behind him spoke softly in his ear. Utitshala answered sharply, all signs of the gentle teacher gone. Zakhele considered for a moment, then answered his companion. The man gave a sullen shrug but kept his eyes on Patrick.

"Forgive us, Doctor," his voice was smooth and cultured. "My friend Onke is a nervous sort. We do not have many friendly visitors out here, as you might imagine, but a friend of Utitshala is a friend of mine. Let us sit and share a moment of this glorious day."

At his word, a battered table of crates and plywood was cleared and the three men took seats. Zakhele's Timothy hovered behind his father, his eyes on the lookout for his friend.

"Mzingisi and I are friends from long, long ago, Doctor Turner. Young lions we were, ready to change the world! Now look at us, eh, my brother? Old and toothless." He laughed, but the sound was mirthless. **"** But old lions can still rule the pride. We are not so feeble, after all."

"Perhaps we would be better off guiding the young ones, umhlobo." Utitshala's voice grew weary.

Zakhele sighed heavily. "Doctor Turner, your boy Timothy, here, he is an excellent student, I am told. He will one day go on to university, perhaps be a doctor like his father. It is as it should be. But my boy Steven, he has had to fight for the right to go to school at all. He has had to take many exams and speak before long tables of old white men to try to prove he is adequate for their mediocre school. My Steven, he would be the top student any one of the great universities of South Africa, even your Oxford. He could be a doctor, or an engineer, or even a great statesman, but he will never have the chance."

"Timothy." Steven Obi approached the small group, worry across his face. "I did not expect you to come out here today." He held out his arms in the same manner his father used, his gesture of welcome diffusing the tension around the table. He greeted the other men and turned to his father.

"Tata, I will go to the Academy. If I study very hard, I may be one of the lucky ones to go on. It is what you wanted for me."

The man rubbed his face, wiping away the emotion he wanted to hide. "You can understand why my old friend and I do not agree, Doctor. He would have us work with the enemy, whilst I would fight him.

"That's what I wanted to discuss with you, Mr. Obi," Patrick leant in. "I think I may have come up with a way that we can do both. I know you don't trust me, all I ask is for the chance to earn that trust."

"Tata, please listen to him. He is here to help our people."

Onke fired up. "He comes to bring help, but how much does he demand from us? The Mission, they need workers to tend to these missionaries, they take food that should go in our children's mouths, and for what? So that they may return home feeling proud that they made an effort to fix the poor black man."

Zakhele placed a warning hand on his deputy's arm. "Doctor Turner, you can see that we are of very strong opinions here. I am certain you mean well, but you must see how we feel."

Patrick's face was earnest. "I _do_ see, Mr. Obi. All my life I have been trying to fight the ills of poverty. Until very recently, most of my patients lived in squalor, homes barely habitable. Change has come to England, and the welfare state has given our poor health care, better living conditions. But none of that just happened. It took hard work, efforts of so many people. We have this chance to make a difference here."

"But it is not for you to make the change, Doctor. We must be self-sufficient if we are to gain the rights we deserve. Handouts only serve to undermine our independence."

"Good medical care is a never a handout, sir." Patrick's voice was determined. "We can help counteract the problems you face here, and make you stronger."

He shifted in his chair, and his hands moved with excitement. "We can help another way, one which I think will make both you and Utitshala happy. I've spoken with Henry Makepeace, and he assures me that the laws against congregation will not reach to medical clinics."

Patrick's words hovered in the air as his plan began to reveal itself. Zakhele squinted as he strove to understand, and Utitshala nodded his head.

"Yes, my old friend," he explained. "His words are true. If you were to come to the clinic, you could meet with the chief of the village, the people of both worlds could listen to each other. The only way we will win is if we work together."

"If we _fight_ together," Onke asserted.

"Perhaps. I cannot support political meetings at hospital, but first you must find some common ground," Patrick echoed the words of his wife the night before.

Onke was still suspicious. "How do we know it's not a trap? If we were to gather at your clinic, and the SAP were to arrive, surely we would be taken away."

"I'm sorry you have such good reason to distrust us, sir," Timothy spoke for the first time since their arrival. "The British haven't been entirely respectful of your country, I know. But my father came here to help, all of us did. If we can establish a permanent mission hospital, we can get more funds from the Mission Society in London, enough to give medical treatment to so many people. We can work together, all of us, to put things to rights." He finished, his face flushed with passion.

For long moments, the only sounds were those of a child crying in a dark hut along the way. Zakhele stood.

"I will speak with my men and we will consider your offer, Doctor Turner. I cannot promise you more."


	21. Chapter 21

Shelagh leant against the verandah post, idly watching as Barbara taught Angela a new song they had heard at the clinic that morning. The little girl twirled around, giggling, and raised her hands to the sky.

"Touch the stars, Mummy!" she cried.

"Be careful you come back down to us, Angel girl." Shelagh called. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her bare arms. She still wasn't used to revealing so much skin, but the heat made her modest cardigan impractical. She knew she shouldn't complain, she'd passed enough Poplar heat waves in her heavy nun's habit to appreciate the cooler shift she now wore. A secret smile played across her lips. She knew Patrick liked the dress, but truth be told, he needed little encouragement.

Timothy ambled slowly around the corner of the house.

"Oh, good, you're home," Shelagh said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd be back in time for dinner."

"Timofee!" Angela cheered, and wrapped her little arms around his knees.

The tall young man reached down to pat her head. "Careful, Ange." Tim stretched his back and then he answered his mother. "It took a lot longer to get out there than we thought. Dad said not to wait dinner for him, he wants to get some work done in the lab before dark."

Shelagh considered his tired face. "Alright, then. You look like you could use a bath, dear. Why don't you go ahead and sneak a quick one in before we eat, then you won't have to race Trixie to the hot water."

He nodded in response, then trudged up the steps to the dormitory.

Shelagh squeezed her hands together. Patrick's retreat to the lab worried her. There had been a return of his old enthusiasm this morning at the clinic, and she felt a glow of pride as she watched him care for the families that came to his examination table. If she were completely honest with herself, it wasn't simply a warm glow of pride she felt.

"Really, Shelagh," she muttered to herself. She turned back to the verandah. "Barbara, could you keep an eye on Angela for a few minutes? I'd like to check on Doctor Turner. The man will forget his dinner if I let him."

"Of course, Shelagh. Angela, will you be my playmate until dinner?"

The child considered her words carefully. "Yes, Nurse Hibert. You find Bizkit for me."

The lab was situated in the back of the hospital, a dark room with a single microscope that pre-dated most of the nurses' births. Patrick sat hunched over a slide, his eyes squinting into the lens, and Shelagh grimaced at the sight of his hands clenched tightly on the table. His tie was loose around his opened collar and the suit that had looked so crisp and cool this morning was now rumpled and creased.

He didn't seem to notice her arrival, so she softly cleared her throat. He looked up, and she could see the fatigue deepening the lines on his drawn face. He had lost so much weight these last few months and was more apparent when he was tired.

"Shelagh." He exchanged one slide for another. "I told Timothy to tell you not to worry. I've got to get these tests done." The clinic had revealed several possible cases of diabetes, a disease that was difficult to treat in an area with little refrigeration, or indeed, access to insulin.

"Yes, dearest, he told me. I wanted to see you, that's all." She smiled warmly and moved around the table. "May I?" she asked, sliding her glasses to the top of her head. _Keep things professional_ , she thought to herself. _He'll open up when he can._

He stepped back and let her peer into the scope. "Nothing serious," he informed her. "We'll have to be more diligent with our warnings about chewing on imphe." The sugarcane-like plant grew rapidly here, and Fred assured them all it certainly scratched the itch when you needed a Quality Street.

"Well, that's good news. Clinic went so very well today, don't you think? While you were gone, I counted thirty-two new patient cards! That might be a slow day in Poplar, but I was really very well pleased." She began to sort the test tubes for cleaning in the morning. "And thank goodness the water heater is up and running, or we'd be here until Christmas sterilizing all this equipment!"

"Shelagh."

She continued, growing more chatty as her nervousness grew. "Biscuit seems to have set himself up as Angela's guardian angel. The wee thing follows her from place to place, and won't let poor Nurse Crane anywhere near her. It was quite funny, really-"

"Shelagh. I'm fine. I simply have work to do. Stop fretting over me." He turned back to a large medical tome that looked very nearly as old as the microscope.

Shelagh winced at his tone. Patrick was very far away right now. As she felt her own anxiety begin to grow, she fell back on a favorite Psalm to find peace. With eyes closed, the words came to her like an old friend. "Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in you."

She moved closer and placed her hand on his forearm. "Patrick, it won't do anyone one bit of good if you work yourself too hard. Come clean up for dinner."

"How can I work myself too hard when no one will let me near them?" he asked sharply, pulling his arm away.

Shelagh took a deep breath. "Alright then, I'll leave you to it." She turned away towards the door.

Patrick reached out and grabbed her hand. "Wait, sweetheart. I've had a rotten afternoon, but I shouldn't take it out on you."

She moved closer. "Was it so very bad, dearest? Myra worried that there might be some trouble."

He looked away, his eyes flat. "There was no confrontation if that's what you mean. We were safe the entire time, though that had something to do with Utitshala's presence."

He rubbed the back of his neck, then shook his head. "As soon as we arrived, it was immediately obvious we weren't truly welcome. I thought perhaps that I could connect with them the way you did, but...These people have had everything taken from them from the very government that should be working to improve lives. Damn!" His anger flared up, and he slammed the book on the table.

"We have this responsibility to help people, and when we don't-when we forget to think about the consequences of our actions, we bring it all down. It's no wonder they don't trust us."

Shelagh's hand slid up the length of his arm to his shoulder and she inched her body closer. "Patrick, I know how difficult this is for you, but you mustn't let it get in the way of the good work you're doing here. We're making real progress in the inoculation program, and the clinic is finally on solid ground. When we go back to Poplar, we'll have made a difference to these people."

"But there are so many more we could help, if only…" he sighed heavily. " When I spoke with the men at the settlement, I didn't come close to reaching them. There's too much distrust."

"The world is different all over, Patrick. It used to be that we could expect trust just because of who were are. My nurses uniform, your medical bag, even Sergeant Noakes's uniform, they all told people we could be trusted, simply because of our job. Now we all must earn that trust because of what we do.

"Dearest, we can't repair all the damage that's been done here, but we can make a start. We _have_ made a start."

His lips tugged into a reluctant smile. "Thank you, Shelagh. What would I do without you? Forgive me?" He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her fingers.

Pink color rose in her cheeks, his familiar gesture a salve to her own anxiety. "There's nothing to forgive."

"Yes,there is. I've been feeling sorry for myself. Warn Angela her dad's a mean old bear, would you?"

Shelagh's hands slid up around his neck. "He's not a mean old bear, he's a good man that wants to do good in the world." With a gentle tug, she pulled his lips to meet hers and for long moments the worries of the world were forgotten.


	22. Chapter 22

In the next several weeks, a new pattern began to emerge at Hope Mission. While the Zulu people of Zakhele Obi's settlement continued to reject any and all invitations to attend clinic, word of the clinic began to spread through the region. Each morning soon after the sun rose, the doors would already be opened to those trying to make the long walk before the heat of the day. All the medics were now on the home visit rotation, including Patrick, and there was a growing sense that when they left, Hope Mission would thrive.

As in Poplar, the clinics became a social gathering place. Women clustered in groups for a good gossip while children ran about- the toys different, but the play the same.

Shelagh placed her handful of patient cards in the wooden box file and turned to see what was next. Sister Julienne sat in one corner attending to a very pregnant young woman flanked by several children, the oldest barely seven. Trixie tended the broken arm of a boy who, like all other boys, thought he was bigger than he really was and had tried to climb the wrong tree, and Nurse Crane, Sister Winifred, and Barbara were deep in a line of people anxiously awaiting their polio inoculations.

"Just like home," Shelagh marveled. The waiting list seemed to have died down for the moment, and she decided it was time for a break. Jacob Arends learned early on that the key to the nurses' hearts was a ready pot of tea, so she poured two mugs and sugared one well. Since Patrick had given up cigarettes, Shelagh was more inclined to indulge him with his sweet hot tea.

Patrick knelt on the ground, listening to the lungs of a patient. Satisfied, he sat back and reassured the small man, and patted him on the shoulder. As the man turned away, he thanked Patrick in Xhosa, and Patrick gamely responded. Good humored laughs rose up around them as he butchered the language.

"It's brave of you to keep trying, dear." Shelagh teased.

He grinned crookedly and accepted the cup of tea she offered. "I just can't seem to manage it. The words always come out with extra syllables. Are we finished for the day?"

"We may be. Twenty-three more polio vaccinations today!" She sipped her tea.

"Good. My worst fear is that those vaccines would go to waste. Myra had a patient this morning that's presenting with what may be appendicitis, she's checking him into the hospital ward now. Can you make sure-"

"I've already sent Fred in to help get the operating room ready. Imagine ever seeing Fred in scrubs back in Poplar-what would Sister Evangelina have said!"

"Poor Fred. I'm sure he'd much rather be out digging for that well. Tom said they've made no progress whatsoever, and Henry Makepeace is concerned enough to make another trip out again today to discuss it." He gulped his tea down.

Shelagh grimaced at his bad habit, then glanced at Trixie. "I'm not quite so sure the well is his only reason for coming out here so often, Patrick."

His eyes followed hers, his eyes squinting with uncertainty. "Do you really think so? She'll be returning to England soon."

"There's always letters, Patrick. I'm told they can be a very effective method of courtship." Her eyes gleamed.

His face softened, and she felt as if he touched her with his look. "I'm a big believer in letter writing myself," he said.

Shelagh blushed, then deliberately changed the subject. "Angela has made new friends."

They both turned to the table set up under the tree. Clusters of children played with the box of toys the team had brought along on their journey. Angela and a small boy sat beneath the table building a tall tower of blocks that never seemed to grow as high as they wanted. Above them, Biscuit hovered on a low branch of the tree, idly chewing on a leaf.

"How are we going to leave here without bringing that monkey home with us?" Patrick wondered aloud yet again.

Suddenly the little vervet sat up very still, then let out a screech. In an instant, worried mothers called out in Xhosa and children moved with the practiced movements of experience. All children but Angela, that is.

Before Shelagh and Patrick could understand what was going on, an old lion appeared at the Mission gates. Mangy and thin, he had none of the supple grace they had seen in other animals out on the veldt. His mane was patchy, and an old battle had left him with only one eye. Long past his prime and rejected by the pride, the beast had an air of unpredictability about him.

Patrick moved towards Angela, but a hand reached out to stop him.

"Wait, Patrick," Myra's voice was low behind him. "He hasn't seen her. If you move, it could be disastrous. Jacob's gone for the gun-"

He jerked his arm away but the woman wouldn't free him.

"Patrick, don't. He'll make it to her before you do. Only a moment, I promise you."

"Don't move Angela, darling," Shelagh whispered. "Please God, don't move." Time stopped as the little girl stacked block upon block, oblivious to her friend's departure and the strange silence.

Hearts pounded as the old lion stretched and slowly shifted his head to see more of the yard. In one instant, Angela's tower of blocks came down, but just as the old lion's head began to turn towards her, there was a loud screech and a blur of grey fur flew in front of his face. The lion shifted his body and lurched for the animal, and Patrick threw off Myra's restraining hand. In the space of four heartbeats he had his daughter in his arms and inside the mission.

A loud crack echoed in the trees and the old lion dropped to the ground. Zakhele Obi lowered a gun nearly as long as he was. The only sound each person could hear in the silence that followed was the pounding of blood in their own ears.

Finally, Zakhele called out in Xhosa, then in English, "Keep away from the body. He is as much a danger now as he was before." Even the intense curiosity of the children, brave now the danger had passed, was not enough to make them defy his order.

Angela struggled from the tight clasp of her parents. "Too tight, Daddy. Down now, play time."

Shelagh choked a laugh through her tears. "Mummy needs hugs, Angel Girl. Stay with Mummy a while longer." Her legs could no longer support her, and she dropped into a chair.

The small grey blur wound about their legs and Patrick looked down at the monkey. "Well done, Biscuit. Very well done."

Jacob Arends came from the mission holding a rifle of his own, but took one look at the scene before him and muttered, "I'll get my shovel."

Zakhele Obi put the safety on his gun and came forward, his hand outstretched in a gesture of peace.

"This old beast found his way to our settlement last night and got into our chickens. I had a feeling he would make his way to you." His limp was more pronounced than ever.

"You walked all that way?" Myra Fitzsimmons demanded.

"My son does it every day. Do you think I am such an old man that I cannot walk a few miles myself?" He laughed, the adrenaline of the moments before lightening his tone.

"You'll feel it tomorrow," Myra assured him, her tone sardonic. "There are others that could make this trip easier than you, Zakhele. Why did you not send one of your young men?"

Conscious of the many eyes upon him, Zakhele hesitated. Myra considered him for a long moment, then decided. "I insist upon examining you. Jacob-"

The small man didn't pause in his path. "I know, take Master Obi's gun and put it somewhere safe."

As the clinic began to return to normal, mothers passed by Shelagh, each aware of the terrible fear she still struggled to control. Hands squeezed her shaking shoulders, fingers stroked the soft cheek of the little girl that had finally relented to her mother's embrace. Murmurs in melodic Xhosa drifted about the space, finally overtaken by the shouts of children returning to normal chaos.

Umakhulu stopped before Shelagh and lifted her hands to her heart. "Do not worry about what might have been, Nurse Uhmlobo. Your girl was meant to stay with you, but you will not have to hold her so tight. You chose your man well, he will help you keep her safe." She leaned in and whispered something in Shelagh's ear, causing a blush of deepest pink to flood her cheeks. With a laugh, the old woman called to her grandchildren and began the slow walk home.

"Nurse Uhmlobo? Doctor Turner, you are the husband of Nurse Uhmlobo?" Zekhele paused as he entered the Mission.

Patrick reluctantly turned his attention away from his wife and daughter. He tilted his head in confusion.

Zakhele laughed. "Even in our settlement, we have heard this tale. The women, they talk of the little nurse that saved Umakhulu's granddaughter with her magic hands that can turn a baby inside its mother. Now they will speak of the Monkey Girl, who can send the beasts to her bidding. Perhaps we have underestimated the English, Doctor Fitzsimmons."

"I've been telling you that for years, Mr. Obi." Myra gestured to the clinic office. "Doctor Turner, I could use your help." Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the building.

Patrick knelt down to meet Shelagh's eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked. He grasped her hand in his while he checked for signs of shock.

"Go, Patrick. I'll let go of her soon, I promise, just not for a little while yet."

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. "Take care of Mummy for me, Angela." He stood, and smothered a groan as his knees creaked. "And remind Mummy I'll want to know what Umakhulu said to her that made her cheeks so pink."


	23. Chapter 23

The clinic office was dim and cool when Patrick entered moments later. Zakhele Obi and Myra Fitzsimmons sat across from each other, the scene more closely resembling a negotiation than a medical examination.

"You must excuse the secrecy, Doctor Turner. I thought it best that people think Zakhele needed medical attention. The fewer people that know we're talking to him at all, the better."

Patrick's eyes glittered. "I haven't thanked you, Mr. Obi. I-I don't have the words, sir. You saved my daughter's life today; I will always be in your debt." Patrick reached out his hand, glad the firm grasp he had kept on his control as he stood by his wife had not slipped.

"You save lives every day, Doctor. We do what we must to work together. That is why I have come today." He unfolded a large piece of paper upon the desk. "I have been trying to think of a way to come here since you arrived, and the old lion gave me the excuse.

"You have seen first-hand that my friends do not trust you. For so long we have been tricked and by the white man, yet perhaps the worst of all is that we have come to believe the government's lies. We have come to believe that we are less than the white man, that our black brothers and sisters are our enemy.

"Many of my friends would stay away from the clinic and the school at Hope Mission rather than accept your help, but my Steven has helped me to understand that we must find trust, that we must work together with the Xhosa and people like Doctor Fitzsimmons if we are ever to regain our dignity and rights. The Zulu are a warrior people, it will not be easy for us to work for peace."

He paused for a moment. "When I was a young man I was an engineer, Doctor. You may be surprised to learn that several of my brothers were skilled men, learned men before the government took that from us. It is why so many from the settlement will not send their children to school."

He smoothed his hands over the diagram before him. "I have drawn a plan for a well that will supply both the mission hospital and the school. Your plans have not worked because they do not take into account the rock bed just beneath the surface. With dynamite, we could break through in one day, but you see the problem with that." He glanced up at Patrick.

"DuPlessis would never allow its use."

"Yes, and if we were to try it, you would be sent to prison for arming the natives." Zakhele sat back in his chair.

"So then how can we possibly break through the rock to water?" Patrick leant over the drawing.

"It is all about knowing which rock to break. Forgive me for saying so, but the Missionary Society is run by clerics, not scientists."

Patrick rubbed his face briskly. "We've been digging in the wrong places."

"Yes. You came to tell us how you could help us. You forgot to ask how we can help you."

Myra shook her head. "Why now, Zakhele? Why do you come to help us now?"

"The Xhosa have tried to speak to the government, to use reason. The Zulus have used resistance and violence. Neither has worked. Our only way to freedom is by combining the two. Steven will soon be a man. He has been accepted to the college, he can be a great man. Steven Obi is my great hope."

"I must go, before people begin to ask questions. Give these plans to Mr. Makepeace, he will know what to do. If we do this right, we will begin to make change." The man stood to go.

Patrick stretched out his hand once more. "It's a privilege, sir. I hope that one day I can be of service to you." A look of understanding passed between the two fathers, and the kernel of an idea began to form.

"I can't believe we never thought of it before." Myra Fitzsimmons considered. "If it works, we could do so much."

"That's the question," Henry Makepeace rubbed his forehead. "As arrogant and blind DuPlessis is, he's no fool. If he gets so much as a whiff of this, he'll see right through it."

"It's a chance we'll have to take, Mr. Makepeace. The old well could fail any day now, and without a ready water supply, the Mission cannot possibly survive. We have to try."

After dinner, the table was cleared and Zakhele's plans spread out. The site chosen for the new well was two hundred yards from the Mission, a high shale rock surrounded by low green bushes and grass. According to the plan, teams of men would use the few pick axes allowed the Mission for the project to break beneath the surface. Once beyond, the augur provided by the Mission Society would drill down to the aquifer and create a space for the new well pump.

If, as Zakhele promised, men from the settlement would assist in the project, the clinic would be used to shield the working crews from police attention. As men dug the well, and later the ditches for the pipeline, the clinic would be mobile, offering an excuse for people to congregate. DuPlessis would tolerate only so much, they could not give him any reason to shut the project down.

"We never considered a spot so far from the Mission," Tom Hereward explained. "Between our manpower and the hard earth, it would take us months to lay pipe to the cistern. But if this plan works, we could finish in two weeks. We'd have time to ensure the pump was running before we have to leave."

"You're sure we can use this dodge, Myra? Du Plessis seems to be searching for a reason to shut us down." Patrick dropped into a chair.

"We can try, Patrick. As long as we keep the men separate, we can claim there's no congregating. It'll be difficult, but the men will know the risk. The hard part will be to spread the clinic schedule out. People here are not ruled by the clock as you are in England. Few people wear watches-or even have clocks in their homes-and the school bell only travels so far. If there's even the slightest gap between patients, DuPlessis will shut us down."

Fred spoke up. "Pardon me, Doctor Fitzsimmons, but what 'bout that voozievela thing I seen at the football match Jacob and me went to a few weeks back? Right train horn that thing was."

"A vuvuzela? Yes, that could work, Fred. We'll need several, and put them at intervals. You'll need to use your best scrounging powers to find enough."

"Never fear, Doctor," Fred puffed out his chest. "You may know your medicine, but when it comes to scrounging, Fred Buckle is your man."


	24. Chapter 24

Creating a mobile clinic with one old truck and a bus necessitated optimism and strong backs. Fortunately, both were in good supply at Hope Mission. Timothy and Steven joined the team and the next morning, a large canvas tent was set up near the well site. Trixie and Barbara took two horses out and travelled through the community to spread the plan, while Phyllis joined Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred in the relocation proved his worth yet again and was able to lay his hands on enough horns to create a network of timekeepers that would make Greenwich jealous.

Within days, rotating teams of men began to break through the shale. For three hours, the men would hammer away at the stone, then transport the rubble to a nearby pile to be used later. As Zakhele promised, a few men from the settlement came to help, but never spoke with the other teams, nor even with the clinic staff. The would work silently, then leave.

Fred's vuvuzela system kept a slow stream of patients at the clinic, each getting far more attention than any patient in busy Poplar ever received or indeed wanted. One at a time, patients would step under the tent awning and have the combined efforts of at least one doctor and several nurses.

For three days, the system seemed to hold up well. The slow train of patients meandered through the off-site clinic, and the well grew deeper. Each day, Zakhele Obi would make the journey out to the site and nod his grizzled head. Not tomorrow, he promised, but soon, they would see water.

By the third tomorrow, however, enthusiasm began to wane, and not simply for the men digging. The medical staff began to get bored, restricted to the small space with little to occupy themselves but the guilt they felt watching the men work in the blazing sun.

Patrick and Shelagh sat at the makeshift examination table tending to a young woman with a severe cut on her hand. It was the first near-emergency the clinic had seen for days, and the nurses had drawn straws to see who could clean away the blood. Disappointed, the others turned back to sorting patient cards and re-boiling water.

Trixie walked over to the edge of the tent and watched the stone dust and rubble fly in the air above the well hole. "It must be dreadfully hot working there, but the men never ask for a break. I'm dying to get away for a breather and all I'm doing is busy work. It makes a girl feel quite useless."

"Never useless, Nurse Franklin." Ever industrious, Sister Winifred sat by peeling the potatoes for the evening meal. "We all have our roles in this plan."

Trixie sighed. "I know. But I feel like I need to be doing _something_." Pushing away from the pole, she determined, "At the very least, I can bring them some fresh water."

As Trixie lifted a bucket to fill, Henry Makepeace entered the tent. "Good afternoon, all!" He looked about the tent and grinned. "I wondered how long it would take for you to get bored. It's not much fun being the smokescreen, is it? Here's hoping today is the tomorrow Mr. Obi has been talking about!"

As he turned to visit the well site, Trixie called, "Just a moment, Mr. Makepeace. I'm on my way over as well. I'm sure they could all use a break." She lifted the heavy water bucket and made to follow.

Henry stopped in his tracks. "You can't do that, Nurse Franklin. What if the police came by? Imagine what they would say at the sight of a white woman serving water to the black laborers?" His face was stern. "We've talked about this, Trixie. The rules are different here. We can only push them so far. It's one thing for you to speak with the women and children, it's quite another for a white woman to be seen spending time with black men."

Trixie's eyes grew round. "I was only going to give them some water, Henry, not the plans to take down the government."

His face softened. "I know that. But it could get you into trouble, and it certainly would not be good for the men. We have to work from within this system if we're going to get anywhere."

"I just don't want them all to think we believe in any of this apartheid nonsense." She blinked hard.

"You're here, helping. They know that." Henry glanced about, noting the eyes upon them, then reached out for her hand. "Little steps, Trixie."

Zakhele was right, and tomorrow did finally arrive. Five days into the project, the teams broke through the bedrock and into the aquifer. With the water supply secured, it was time for the clinic to begin its slow crawl back to the Mission.

Each evening the team would move the tented clinic twenty-five yards closer to their goal, and finally a sense of success began to build. The mood lightened, and the clinic took on the anticipatory feeling of the last week of Advent. The patient train was still managed to a trickle, but rather than fill the hours with busy work, the medics cautiously joined in.

As Umakhulu's favorite, Shelagh was often coaxed to join in with the young mothers as they bonded over the joys and fears of motherhood. Watching them balance the two, Shelagh finally relaxed and allowed Angela to join her new playmates.

Heeding Henry Makepeace's warnings, Trixie and Barbara cautiously began to interact as well. Music needed no interpreter, and the two young women found that the traditional dances were an easy way to pass the time spent waiting. Phyllis Crane, always game for a new experience, may have provided more amusement than she intended when she learned some of the new steps.

After school, Timothy and several older children would start up a game of football, and each day, Patrick would watch as the old ball would fly down the small field. On one such day, Steven Obi came to meet his father for the long walk home.

"Doctor Turner, you should join the game. You must grow tired of always watching."

Patrick laughed. "Oh, no, thanks. My days as a footballer are long gone, I'm afraid."

Timothy ran over to join them. "Dad's really a cricket player, Steven. If we had a cricket pitch, he'd be out every day with us!"

"Cricket?" Steven buzzed with excitement. "I have always wanted to learn to play. Perhaps you could teach me, Doctor?"

"You could, Dad. We've got a ball similar to a cricket ball back at the schoolhouse. And we could use a branch for a bat." When Patrick made to demur, Timothy pushed him. "Come on, Dad, you know you want to. I'll send-"

"Joseph has already run to get the ball, Doctor Turner, and Timothy is right. We can make do with one of the old boards the crew is using. One day, I should like to say I was a cricket player. You will not take that chance from me, will you, Doctor?"

With a chuckle, Patrick shed his lab coat and rolled up his sleeves. "You've quite a career in diplomacy ahead of you, Steven. Well, then, come on, lads!"

For a time, Patrick used his bowls to instruct Stephen and the other village boys on the skills needed to successfully bat in cricket. Soon, each striker was successfully making contact with the ball.

Shelagh returned from a call and stopped to watch. She waved over to her husband, and he stopped to lift his sunglasses and wave back.

"Tim, your turn," Patrick announced. "Let's show the lads a little more steam."

Timothy left the wicket and took the bat from Steven.

"You are a good cricket player like your father, Timothy?" Steven asked.

A grimace crossed Timothy's face and he didn't answer the question. He took position and waited for his father to bowl. Four pitches went by, each one an over, each one far faster and better placed than the bowls thrown earlier. With each pitch, Tim grew more irritated.

"Dad, you know no one can hit those bowls with a cricket bat like this. Stop showing off for Mum!"

As laughter rose up from the small crowd, the poor boy muttered, "Sometimes parents can be _so_ embarrassing!"


	25. Chapter 25

In the morning, bags would be packed up onto the old Mission bus. In the morning, handkerchiefs would wipe away tears. In the morning, promises would be made that might one day be fulfilled.

But that was in the morning. Now, as the sun began to drop in the sky, preparations for a small farewell celebration was underway at the Mission. Fred and Jacob piled wood high for a bonfire, while the nuns and nurses set the long tables for a feast. Food had come from all ends of the region, as well as small gifts and tokens of thanks. The sadness to come at tomorrow's parting was forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Patrick stepped out of the clinic office and took it all in, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The permanent medical team had arrived only that morning, a feat of timing he hadn't expected of the Mission Society, and he had spent the better part of the last day helping Myra prepare the young doctor and nurses for the task ahead. The new team was more than qualified, and Hope Mission had a bright future.

He scanned the yard for his wife. While he knew he wouldn't have been much help packing today, he wanted to make it up to her. He slipped the key to the truck into his jacket pocket and went in search of Shelagh.

He found her sitting on the steps to the dormitory, watching Timothy teach Angela how to play mancala.

"You're just in time, Dad," Tim informed him. "We just finished packing."

"Sorry, Tim. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll do all the unpacking when we get back in Poplar."

"You most certainly will not," Shelagh chortled. "I'll never find my new dresses."

Patrick reached down and scooped Angela into his arms. "And what about you, little girl? Did you help Mummy pack?"

"I packed Bizkit baby, Daddy." She held up the homespun monkey doll Kholeka had presented her with that morning. "Bizkit baby come with Angela."

"He certainly will, sweetheart. Tim, keep an eye on your sister for a little while, would you? I want to show Mum something. Then the night's yours. I promise when Steven comes you won't have to do a single thing."

Patrick reached for Shelagh's hand. "Come along. Mrs. Turner."

The ride wasn't long, and soon Patrick pulled the truck to the side of the road. Miles ahead, the Great Escarpment rose blue and grey out of the flat yellow veldt. A small herd of zebras grazed in the grasses before turning away to a hidden place to sleep.

Patrick reached again for his wife's hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "Close your eyes," his voice grew husky. "Wait for me."

He ran around the truck's bonnet and helped her down, then led her towards the back of the truck. "You're always busy with Angela this time of day, but you can't leave without seeing this. Open your eyes."

Shelagh looked up at his smiling face. He shook his head and placed a light kiss against her lips. "No, look up, Shelagh."

Shelagh lifted her eyes to the sky and a short breath caught in her throat. Reaching past the edge of the world, the diluted blue of the western sky gave way to a cotton wool of mottled pale pink and yellow and purple. She spun in place, her hand tight in his, "Patrick, it's-I don't have the words for it. I've never seen such a beautiful sky."

He pulled her close up against him, her back warming his chest as the temperature began to drop. "I have the word for it, Shelagh," he whispered, her name a sigh on his lips. "Inspirational. It's like this whole place-the opposites of the grey mountains and the yellow plain, white and black, both kept so distinct, and yet, somehow, there's this incredible beauty right above them."

They swayed together in silence as they watched the colors shift, yellow dissolving into orange, purple finally deepening until the first star appeared. Shelagh turned to face him and lifted her face to his. Their lips met in a long, slow kiss, intimate and secret. After long moments, they parted, their breath still mingling as they hovered close.

"Thank you, Shelagh," he whispered before he kissed her lower lip lightly. Unable to stop, he deepened the kiss again, and the passion rose between them. They could have each other, here in the gloaming, far from the others, and for a wild moment, they might have done. But reason returned, and Patrick put his hands on her waist to allow for some air between them.

"I'm not naive, Shelagh. Six weeks here hasn't made all the darkness go away. We'll leave, and our friends will still have to face this awful system. Back in Poplar, Susie Mullocks will still have those terrible deformities, and God knows what else we might see." He paused, and Shelagh stroked his cheek and slid into the hair at the back of his head.

"The world can be so very hard, Shelagh, but there's always hope. You've helped me remember that, and I'll always be grateful for that."

Shelagh tucked her head under his chin. "There's always a place for hope, dearest."


End file.
